


Regarding the Epigenetic Effects of Kissing Werewolves

by Unloyal_Olio



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dark Comedy, Drunkenness, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Homme Fatale, Kissing, Lydia'sEvilOlderSister, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Singer!Stiles, Soul Bond, Werewolf!Stiles, alpha rock band, alpha!Derek, creeper!peter, omegaverse - sort of.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-09-11
Packaged: 2017-11-12 13:46:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 33,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unloyal_Olio/pseuds/Unloyal_Olio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles's mom had tried to tell him before she died. He should have listened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings are in the story's end note. If you have triggery issues, please read them first. Most of what you'd need to be wary about are the typical, standard omegaverse stuff.

Blame Scott.

Or at the very least, blame birthdays.

Because Scott had complained about “never, ever being able to get drunk,” and well, Stiles had thought about it. Considering that wolfsbane worked on werewolves, there had to be other substances that affected them, right? And well, then, Stiles couldn’t STOP thinking about it, because Scott’s birthday was coming up, and Stiles didn’t have a job to buy him stuff (his allowance was eaten by gas). So yeah, he could do some research and give Scott a _creative_ present.

This had led Stiles to browse some of the shadier parts of the internet. And by “shadier,” Stiles meant gardening club websites. There was one in particular. The gardener’s were discussing Carmichael’s monkshood (read: wolfsbane), used in traditional Chinese medicine to “restore yang and expel cold.”

 **BlueMoon1972** had replied, “Not for my dog, it doesn’t.”

Way too many LOLs and dancing dog GIFs followed that (really dumb) comment for Stiles to simply ignore it.

This was totally a werewolf gardening forum!

Farther down on the page, someone was talking about the Delphinium family. **MyRoseHipsShakeIt** said, “If you make an extract from the seeds and rub it on your mutt—it helps with lice and nits.”

 **Roots4Claws** replied, “And by that did you mean mutt or _muff_ , dear?”

 **BlueMoon1972** commented, “We buy the tincture and mix it with Everclear. Let’s just say this: Bow-Wow-Yippy-Yay.”

1972 comedy aside, **BlueMoon** had given Stiles the answer.

With his next click, Stiles set about placing an Amazon order.

\- - -

Before Stiles’s mom had died, there’d been a strange moment.

He was bringing her a glass of water while she was lying on the couch, cringing (in delight—though she would never admit it) over reality TV, when she asked him to sit.

“Stiles, I’m going to tell you something. It’s going to sound weird.”

Stiles was pretty used to deep, weird and grief-inducing conversations by this point, so he plopped down cross-legged on the floor and waited.

“It’s not going to make sense, because I really don’t even understand it.”

“Okay…” Stiles stared at his mom’s pills. The number of painkillers looked about where it should be.

She saw the direction of his gaze and rolled her eyes. “When I was fifteen, my grandmother sat me down because she wanted to tell me about something in our family history. Something in our blood. Something genetic. And this is the weird part. She wouldn't tell me what it was—but she was fervent that I needed to tell my children because it would last for another generation at least.”

Stiles blinks. “Um, mom, I can get a gene assay if you want. They’re pretty common these days.”

“No! I mean, you could, but it was the second part. Now, your great grandmother was not a silly woman. She laughed about… never, so I know she was serious when she said this. She told me that if I ever was kissing someone—that if I felt a pull, not a normal pull but a real physical force—I should run. I should get as far away as possible from that person.”

“So great gran used the scaremonger tactics instead of a normal sex talk?”

“Stiles, that wasn't what this was. She wasn't a superstitious person, but at the time I thought it must have been a weird childhood trauma. I didn't believe her either. That was, until I was in college. There was this guy at a party—he kissed me and—”

“La-la-la-la-la.” Stiles had his ears covered and his eyes closed.

She hit his shoulder. “It’s just that it was what she was talking about. I felt an inhuman pull.”

“So the kiss ended?”

“Yes. I did like she said. I made an excuse and ran.”

“Never felt that pull with dad?”

“Oh, I felt a pull, all right, but… different. Safe.”

\- - -

Later after he’d lost her, after he’d sunk into grief, he’d forgotten about that conversation. He’d clung onto other details, other stories, but the “weird kiss” conversation had been covered and buried, just like she had in the end. It was unfortunate.

Because Stiles should have remembered.

He should have _run_.

\- - -

Stiles—because he didn't want to accidentally kill anyone—went to the Hale house and asked Derek what he knew about Delphinium. Derek frowned and went to get (creepy) Peter’s laptop. A minute later, Derek pronounced, “2 ounces per liter, but it depends on the intensity. You’ll have to test it on me first.”

Stiles had long since leaned over Derek's shoulder to glimpse the screen. “Is that a werewolf cookbook?”

Derek snapped the laptop shut. “Herbs taste differently when your sense of smell is heightened. You have the tincture on you. Let’s test it now.”

Freaking werewolf super smell. Stiles took the bottle out of his back pocket and handed it over.

Derek brought the bottle up to eye-level. “You made a lot.”

“Enough for a party.” Stiles grinned.

“Wait, one moment,” Derek commanded. When he returned, it was with two bottles of unlabeled liquor. One was more golden, the other dead clear.

“Are you planning on testing cocktail mixes?” Stiles joked.

Derek ignored him and spilled several drops of the tincture into the clear bottle. “Bottom’s up,” and then he’d guzzled down a quarter of the bottle. When he finally released it—with a pop—he leaned back on the couch, his neck stretched long (which Stiles definitely did not notice the way his Adam’s apple bobbed), and said, “Oh, fuck, yeah.” Then he turned to Stiles and pushed the yellow bottle at him.

Stiles was staring warily at Derek. “You don’t seem to be dying.”

“Nope. Now drink.”

“Uh, I know you’re not all that checked in with society, but I have this thing called high school tomorrow.”

“I’m not drinking alone. Just have a sip.”

\- - -

An hour later, Stiles was giggling. “You've never been drunk before, have you?”

Derek, who was even more silent than usual, only smiled, but it was a totally drunk werewolf smile.

Stiles didn't understand how Derek could be so quiet. “You’re, like, really in control for a drunk werewolf.”

Derek had snorted, and then he’d leaned forward, sorta fake-menacingly and glared at Stiles. His eyes had shifted red. For a second. Then back to blue. Then red again. Then blue.

Stiles burst into snorty laughs. “They’re—They’re—like Christmas lights! Like little blinky Christmas lights.” He could not stop laughing over this.

“Not like Christmas lights.” Derek scowled.

“Yeah, calling you Rudolph just wouldn't work.” Stiles snorted. “You’re too…” He waved at the general Derekness: the broad shoulders, the 8-pack abs, the chiseled jaw, and yeah, the pretty, blinky eyes.

“I’m too what?” Derek was frowning and _sniffing_.

“What do you smell?” Stiles whispered conspiratorially.

“You—evading my question. Too what?”

Stiles huffed. “Don’t be that way.”

“What way?”

“All alpha-y. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

“Then answer my question—why wouldn't I be Rudolphy?” Then Derek’d frowned very deeply, as the gravity of what he’d just asked settled over him.

They both burst into laughter at the same time.

“Rudolph has the—the _nose_.” Derek was tapping his nose, laughing harder. “Not—" It took him a minute to get the words out because he was laughing so hard, holding his chest as he finally got a breath. "—not the eyes."

Stiles was laughing uncontrollably too—rubbing his own nose in imitation, and generally having such a hard time making sure he was still breathing that he just figured he’d pass out eventually and Derek would have to carry him home, and that wouldn't be so bad, would it? Oh, except for his dad. Stiles’s dad was going to be pissed. But Derek was on the couch across from him still tapping his nose.

It was one of the weirder things that Stiles had ever done, but then again he was very drunk—so he leaned across the couch, pinkie-warred Derek’s finger out of the way, and had pressed his finger onto Derek’s nose, saying, “I like your nose, even if it doesn't blink.”

Derek, who was looking at Stiles’s finger in a way that was a bit cross-eyed, said, “I know.” And then he’d grinned. “I’m sexy.”

Stiles had flicked Derek’s nostril and then leaned back. “Bragging is in poor taste.”

“Well, I like your nose too.”

And that just made Stiles giggle. “Noooo. No. My smile is my best feature.”

Derek smiled at that, and all of the sudden neither of them were laughing any more. Rather, Derek’s lips were pouted and twisted to the side, like he was considering what Stiles had said. Even still, Stiles was not ready for it when Derek grabbed him on either side of the face and commanded, “Smile.” And then he kind of pushed on the sides of Stiles’s cheeks, trying to shape out a smile.

“Hey now,” Stiles complained, fighting the man handling. “I’m not a sexy-smiler on command.” But saying something so ridiculous, well, it kind of ended up with him smiling at his own joke.

So there they were: Derek prying Stiles’s cheeks up so that his gum line was showing—and Stiles doing his stubborn best to prevent it. “See, you can sexy-smile,” Derek said.

“You think my smile is sexy?” Stiles teased.

Derek laughed. “Or, maybe, you’re better with a frown.” And then he mashed the sides of Stiles’s face down.

“Owwwww,” Stiles complained.

“Sorry.” But Derek didn’t let up. Instead, he twisted the bottom lip to the right and the top lip to the left. It was not pleasant.

“Big wolf man, you dost not know thy strength.”

“I’m drunk,” Derek apologized but then smooshed Stiles's cheeks together so his face pudged out. Then, naturally, Derek laughed again.

“Ihateyou,” Stiles managed.

“No, you don’t.” Derek was trying to get Stiles to make a fish face.

“Is this a wolf thing? Just instead of roughhousing and snapping at tails—my face is the chew toy?”

“You’d know it if you were a chew toy,” Derek said, without stopping.

Oh. Um.

“Stiles,” Derek said—and Derek never said his name in that tone. “Relax your face.”

“Why?”

“Just…” But then Derek’s fingers were brushing down over his eyelids, so that they fluttered shut. They trailed down his cheeks until they were encircling the shape of his mouth.

Stiles swallowed. But he didn't open his eyes. He couldn't. This went way beyond drunk silly. It even went beyond homoerotic humor. This even went beyond the drunken, coy flirting. When he felt Derek’s breath tickling across his lips, Stiles said, “So you like my smile?”

“Hmmmhhh,” Derek hummed, like he was considering it, before concluding. “Definitely. Yes.”

Stiles’s head was tipped back. Couch cushions creaked on either side of him. And then his nose was competing for oxygen with Derek’s. There was a drag of stubble as Derek’s chin brushed his, and then Derek’s lips were feather-brushing against Stiles’s. “I can kiss you, right? Is this okay?”

That was when Stiles felt the pull for the first time. Because—oh fuckety, fuck, fuck—the sensation. It was more than chemical. “Okay” was not the word. The word was “hungry.”

Stiles wasn't really sure what the sound emerging from his throat was—but Derek responded in kind, definitely growling as he merged their mouths. Stiles was vaguely aware of biting Derek’s bottom lip, and then there was tongue. Yeah, Derek was sucking on his tongue. The sensation was going deep. Way deep. Almost painful. Like tearing. And Stiles’s hands were doing some crude clawing at Derek’s back but Derek was just rolling with it, groaning and breathy and only pulling away to lick at Stiles’s bottom lip—and then his jaw—and then his neck.

“More,” Stiles demanded, pulling up on Derek’s shirt so that Derek was sliding up him—and then pressing into him.

Stiles wanted to be pressed into. He wanted to be squeezed out of his shell. Juiced. Yes, something was confining him. He needed to be cut out. This was the point where he started yanking up on Derek’s shirt.

Derek paused, staring down at what Stiles was trying to do. Then he laughed, pushed Stiles’s hands away and rent the fabric in two. Stiles didn't even care. He pushed his own shirt up, making it so that their skin was soft and touching—and he could feel, God, he could feel Derek’s muscles against his own. “I didn't even know you were into guys.”

“I didn't either—but you drive me insane,” Derek said and then he started in on Stiles’s neck, kissing and licking while somehow also managing to continually be running his hands up and down the length of Stiles’s spine.

It wasn't fair. Stiles’s dick was rock hard, and he was close—close just from being on Derek’s lap and the sloppy kisses. His whole body was trembling. He’d never really even kissed anyone before—and maybe it was because Derek was a stupid, sexy werewolf, because holy shit. “I’m—” he tried to explain.

When he opened his eyes, Derek’s were fire red and Stiles was too sex-crazed to be scared as Derek nodded, said, “smile, Stiles,” and ground their hips together for the last time. Stiles was too gone to really notice the insane give in his own heartbeat. He was gripping too hard to notice his fingers had drawn blood from Derek’s back. And because his eyes were squeezed shut, he didn't see his reflection in the broken mirror on the wall.

Or how his hazel eyes were glowing an abnormal shade of green.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, so pretty major Season 2 Spoilers I just sorta realized. (In my defense, I didn't KNOW THAT when I started writing this. It's super fun to go with the flow!) but officially now, at this point, this story picks up right where S2 left off.

When Stiles’s alarm clock went off the next morning, he got up like he always did. The timer-set coffee machine was already gurgling on schedule. He put the honey whole wheat bread in the toaster. There were two eggs over-medium for himself, and well, an egg-white omelet with vegetables for his dad. In the freezer, behind the frozen mango, he found a half-eaten king-sized Snickers bar. After a glare upstairs—where he could hear the shower running—Stiles walked the candy outside to the dumpster and chucked it in.

He was standing in the sunshine when it hit him:

Last night. DEREK. Drinking.

 _Why_ wasn't he hung-over?

And how had he gotten HOME?

He was way too clear-headed for this. Where was the foggy, photophobic pain and disorientation that would make him too miserable to fully appreciate his shame? But—no. He could remember most of it, like the rather ridiculous moments where Derek played Mr. Potato Head with his face. And the Rudolph bit. Oh, and maybe the part where Derek had licked his happy trail clean. Oh, and well, fuck—Derek was a dude-man-guy. He didn't have tits. Or baby-bearing parts. He had large shoulder muscles and stubble and a…

He was not going to think about Derek's DICK.

Stiles grabbed his opposite shoulders and then his temples—and then he wiped down the front of his face like he could scrub the insanity away. His breathing went a little out of control. His head swam. This was definitely a gay crisis.

Stiles kerplopped in his driveway. From his slumped position, he contemplated the street. It was 7:27 a.m. He could crawl out in the middle of asphalt, and probably Lydia’s mom would probably run him over when she roared by at 7:30 a.m. The woman’s speeding tickets accounted for a good portion of the Beacon Hills operating budget.

He was beginning to lift up on all fours when a call came from the house. “Stiles?” His dad was standing on the front stoop with not his omelet—but Stiles’s fried eggs in hand. One was already half eaten.

“Those were not for you!” Stiles complained, hopping to his feet.

“I saw you chucked my Snickers.” His dad forked another bite into his mouth.

Just at that moment—Mrs. Martin roared by in her lime green convertible. She actually had the gall to wave at Stiles’s dad as she went 40 in a 25 mph zone. Stiles used the distraction to march up and yank the plate of eggs out of his dad’s hands. Afterwards, the morning was too normal—and rushed—to focus on those other issues.

\- - -

Stiles was in deep contemplation of all things _straight_ -Stilinsky when Lydia plopped down in front of him in their AP English class. She must have been waving her hands in front of his eyes for a while, because it was only when she barked, “Stiles!” that he jumped back and noticed, well, her and her perfect boobs. But then he thought of Derek’s many tight muscles. And how’d they’d felt clenching underneath him. He collapsed his head on his desk.

Above him, he heard Lydia ask, “You’re not going to puke, are you?”

“Not immediately.”

“Okay. So what’s going on?”

Stiles bolted upright. “Why would anything be going on?”

“Do you want a list? You haven’t yet given me one of your giggly-leers, and it’s late morning. You haven’t smiled at all, actually. When you looked at me just now, the look at my chest was _resentful_. You keep frowning at Danny—like he’s done something to you, which I know he hasn’t.” Lydia paused, mouth dropping open. “You’re not having a gay crisis, are you?”

Stiles sputtered. A lot.

Lydia rolled her eyes. “It’s over Derek, isn’t it?”

When Stiles squeaked, Lydia shook her head in exasperation. “It would have to be someone as good looking as me to distract you—so definitely him. Anyway, I don’t want to talk about that. I need your help. My sister is in town.”

At this, Stiles perked up. “Carmen?” Lydia’s sister was four years older than they were. She’d been a senior when Stiles was a freshman. Unlike Lydia, who was strawberry-blond with soft curves, she was white-blond and all angles. Stiles remembered Carmen wearing a lot of black leather. Stiles had never stopped being impressed.

Lydia nodded, before sneaking a look around the room and whispering, “Her and her stupid band.”

“Wait—she’s in a _band_?”

Lydia slapped her hand over Stiles’s mouth. “Yes, her loser, wannabe band.”

“Um, are they just visiting?”

“I have no idea why they’re here. Her band members are hot—they just smell.” Lydia wrinkled her nose.

“You said you needed my help.”

“Oh, right.” Lydia nodded. “We need to get your dad to arrest them.”

“Um…” Stiles interlaced his fingers and raised a very high eyebrow at Lydia.

“I mean it. My sister—well, she takes a special delight in ruining my life. She’s so bossy, and you know, she pretty much cut off ties with our family a few years ago, but now she’s suddenly back, and I-I _hate her_.” Lydia smiled through gritted teeth. “So we can totally frame them, right? Like, run them out of town? Old school?”

Stiles took a long, calming breath. “Lydia, my dad needs some peace. I’m worried about his oxidized LDL levels. I’ve already put him through enough this past year—oh, like I don’t know—losing his JOB. I’m not going to make him worry about your dumb family feud.”

Lydia gaped at him, dumbfounded. “Holy shit, you really are having a gay crisis.”

\- - -

Stiles hadn't seen Scott for the most of the day. Scott had stumbled into Chem late—and since _they weren't allowed to sit together_ —Stiles hadn't really talked to him. Not to mention, Scott was making a real effort to actually do the whole paying-attention-thing and get his grades up. That’s why it wasn't until lunchtime that they actually could sit and talk. Unfortunately, Scott wasn't just sitting alone. Jackson was across from him, blabbing about winter sports now that Lacrosse season was over. “Swim team is mine. Play basketball—no, you’re too short—do wrestling. Just not swimming.”

Scott was glaring at Jackson. “I’m not switching just because you say I should. Besides, it’s not like we do the same strokes. I do breaststroke—you do fly. And seriously, we’d kill on relays.”

Jackson paused, obviously not having considered this. Stiles sat down next to Scott at the same time that Danny sat down next to Jackson. “No, you don’t even like swimming. You don’t want to do wrestling because you think it’s too gay.” Jackson turned to Danny. “No offense.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “And breast stroking yourself—that’s not gay?”

Jackson laughed, but Scott shook his head. “No less gay than floating on your back.”

Danny grinned. “I don’t think the stroke matters when there’s that many athletic men wearing speedos.”

Stiles couldn't take it anymore. “Could we MAYBE lay off with the GAY commentary?” And when he looked around and realized that most of the cafeteria was now staring at him, he added, “for Danny’s sake. It's insensitive.”

This was the point when Scott finally seemed to notice Stiles. “Dude, are you okay? You, um, smell different.”

“Whatdoyoumean?” Stiles jerked away from Scott.

But Jackson was leaning forward too. “Yeah… you do. You smell really good.”

Danny was giving Jackson a confused look.

“I showered,” Stiles snapped.

And oh, Isaac had to show up too. “Yep, I could smell you across the room.” He was frowning and giving Jackson and Scott a confused but _knowing_ look.

“Oh, fine!” Stiles barked. “I got drunk last night. And, um, Derekmighthavegottendrunktoo.”

“But—wait—Derek can’t—how did Derek get drunk?” Scott asked.

“I did some research.”

“Wait, we—I mean—” Jackson cast a sidelong glance at Danny, before eyeing Scott. “Do you have problems getting drunk? Why didn't I know that?”

“Haven’t been drunk in a while,” Scott replied cryptically. “High tolerance these days.”

“But Stiles seems to have found a way,” Isaac said. All three of them fixed their intensely lupine gazes on Stiles. Stiles thought he saw Jackson’s eyes flickering with a little too much aquamarine sparkle.

“I found a… good mix. Derek tested it out. It works. I was going to tell you on your birthday,” Stiles said to Scott.

There was a good deal of fist-pumping and “hell yeah’s!” that followed.

It was only as lunch was ending that Danny caught up with Stiles. “Hold up. I know I missed something—big. And I’m slightly worried that you might have turned into a drug dealer. Except that you’re not that slick and your dad’s the sheriff. Anyway, I definitely didn't miss that you got drunk with Derek Hale last night. Or should I say your cousin _Miguel_? And that now you’re flipping your shit over sexuality jokes.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Stiles reminded himself to breathe.

Danny put a hand on his shoulder. Stiles tried not to flinch.

He epically flinched.

“Right.” Danny nodded sagely. “Well, good for you. Derek, huh? If you have any questions…”

“Why would _I_ have questions?” Once again, Stiles's voice went unnaturally high. It cracked.

Danny rolled his eyes as once again an entire section of the cafeteria was looking at them. “No reason, Stiles. No reason at all.”

\- - -

Stiles was at the rather granola health foods store off Main Street after school. He was contemplating some kale—it was purple. Was it really supposed to be purple? Or, if it was purple, was it just for garnish? Or did you really eat it? They did say to “eat the full rainbow of colors.” Kale was supposed to be high in folic acid, which was important if you were trying to have babies. Stiles and his dad weren't trying to have babies, so he wondered if folic acid was still all that important, but then kale was probably high in iron?

“You boil it for 7 minutes in salt, and then after you strain out the water, you can cook it in garlic and oil. No bitterness that way.”

Stiles looked up to see sex on a stick. Or more specifically, Carmen Martin—Lydia’s sister.

“You’re little Stiles, aren't you? The Sheriff’s kid.”

Stiles nodded dumbly. Her midriff was bare and Stiles could make out a long, jagged barbwire tattoo that started at her left hip, broke off around her navel and then continued upward toward secret places.

“It’s broken in multiple places because I don’t like being chained. At all.”

“But you like kale.” It was the only non-sexual thought Stiles could muster.

“I prefer organic. Chemicals don’t sit well in my system.”

“Chemicals are bad.” Highly intelligent statement number two.

“Yes, they pollute our inner grace.” She stepped closer to him, and Stiles didn't miss the way her nostrils flared.

“I know your sister.”

Carmen scoffed. “Uh, I’d think so. You've had a crush on her since you were eight.”

“You knew about that? I didn't think she even _registered_ it.”

“She’s never taken you up on it, has she?” Carmen stepped closer.

“Um, no.”

Carmen leaned past Stiles, bending down so that she could grab the largest parsnip out of the bin (and also so Stiles got a full peep down the front of her rather tight shirt) “Fucking moron. She’s not stupid, which you know—but she’s not good at being smart, either. Massive inferiority complex. Need for approval. Probably my fault.”

“Your fault.” Stiles was far too focused on the obscene way that Carmen was running her hand up and down the long, beige, and incredibly phallic tuber.

“But me—I don’t miss out on opportunities.” She brought the parsnip so that the tip was almost touching her mouth.

“Opportunities?”

“I think I’m going to buy some of these.” She rolled the parsnip in her hand before chucking it back in the bin. “I love creamed parsnip. Don’t you?”

“Never had it,” Stiles choked out, hoarse.

 _Because_ … Was this really fucking happening? Was she going to cream his parsnip? Oh yeah, she stepped closer, smiling at him. They were equal in height. When he didn't move away, she closed the final amount of space, so that their hips were touching—and shhhhhhit, she could probably feel his raging hard on. If she did, she must not have been turned off. “You smell incredible,” Carmen half-whispered, running her nose along his jaw. That was when the alarm bells went off.

Smell. Hot girl. Lydia’s prodigal sister.

SMELL.

Bad. Bad. Bad.

“Carmen, get away from him.”

That would be _Derek_. Worse. Worse. Worse.

Against him, Carmen froze, but when Stiles’s leaned back to see her expression, it was more amused than anything. “He’s not wearing a collar, Hale. Is that an accident? We already found two of your other puppies without their leashes. We let them go. Not sure I want to let this one free. Even if he’s the runt of the litter, I think I like his scent too much.”

Derek’s eyes went red at the same time that Carmen’s did.

Holy shit. Carmen wasn't just a hot rocker with overactive olfactory glands and a moonsuit—she was an alpha.

“Let him go.”

“He’s not marked.”

“Your pack doesn't take betas. Let him go.”

“But he’s not an beta—oh, wait.” Carmen was grinning. “You didn't know, did you?”

Derek’s eyes jerked toward Stiles, and there was definite _shock_ in his expression.

“I think I’m going to buy the kale!” Stiles piped, attempting to jerk his hips out of Carmen’s grasp.

“Oh, sweetie, you’re not going anywhere.” Carmen’s grip was iron.

Stiles decided he very much didn't like her anymore. She was _not_ hot (even if her boobs were even more gorgeous than her sister’s).

“But his dad’s the sheriff,” a new voice said. And ugh. Ugh. UGH. It was (creepy) Uncle Peter.

“You’re outnumbered, be-yatch,” Peter said, and then he laughed because he was sociopathic like that.

“Stiles, come here,” Derek said.

This time, when Stiles yanked himself free, Carmen let him go. Not wanting to waste the open door, Stiles ran right behind Derek. His rather broad back was a fantastic shield.

“Right now you outnumber me, but I simply wasn't prepared,” Carmen said. “You’re going to have to give him up.”

Say what?

“Leave,” Derek growled.

Carmen narrowed her eyes, and then with a lingering smile for Stiles, sashayed her way out of the produce section.

“I’d do her,” Peter said.

Derek glared at his uncle.

“So,” Peter sighed, turning his grin on Stiles. “You.”

“All I did was go grocery shopping,” Stiles complained.

“No, what you did was let an alpha in your pants,” Peter said with his grin cast at Derek.

Stiles was pretty sure his face was flame red. “I’m leaving.”

“Nope,” Peter said, blocking him with an arm. “Not without an escort.”

“He’s right, Stiles.” Derek wasn't looking at him.

“I have to go home, cook a non-artery-clogging dinner for my dad, and then do my homework. If that’s going to be a problem, would either of you just tell me what the fuck is going on?”

Derek was staring fixedly at the rutabaga on the shelf, so it was Peter who answered. “There are two traditional ways to become a were. One is to be bitten, the other is to be born that way, but there’s a much rarer, third way. Werewolf genes can stay in a line—normally dormant—that is, until there’s an alpha,” Peter coughed, “ _involved_ —and they can activate.”

Stiles was feeling a rather painful churning in his stomach. “So, the whole freaky perfumy-Stiles-thing that’s been going on. That's why? Because I’m a… were?”

Peter smiled. “And not just the run-of-the-mill version, either. You’re a _gamma._ ”


	3. Chapter 3

Derek refused to let Peter into Stiles’s jeep. (Stiles was super okay with this.) As soon as the doors were shut, Derek smacked the steering wheel, said “drive,” and stole Stiles’s phone. “Um, whom are you texting?” Stiles inquired, because Derek was looking loony even for a werewolf.

“Scott and Isaac—and no, don’t go to your place. Left up ahead.” When Stiles gave him the you’re-scaring-me look, Derek clarified, “Head toward Deaton’s.”

“Um, why are we visiting the local paranormal veterinarian?”

“Worst comes to worst, he has a lot of mountain ash. Also, he’ll be able to answer your questions better than I can.”

Right, well, that was actually a bit reassuring. Stiles liked mountain ash. When he’d lined that club with it and had to use his magical thinking powers, it made him feel kind of like a super hero. Now, as for the not-so-reassuring part. Stiles glanced over at Derek. “Are we going to talk about…?”

“No.”

“You took me home last night, right? I didn't, like, poof into a wolf and howl myself into my bedroom.”

“You passed out. I took you home.” Derek didn't look up from Stiles’s phone.

It was weird. The whole day Stiles had been freaking out about what happened last night, but now that he was sitting next to Derek, Stiles felt dead calm. He cast a glance at Derek's hard jaw, his sharp nose, the soft fringe of his hair, and well, okay, Danny was right. Who wouldn't be attracted to Derek? The werewolf radiated hot, grumpy power. It made Stiles not afraid. Derek made everything seem normal. “I don’t really feel any different. I don’t feel like a wolf.”

Derek shrugged and didn't say a word for the rest of the way. If Stiles didn't know better, he would have said Derek looked _guilty._

\- - -

On the front stoop of the vet clinic, a rather aggressive Pomeranian ran out and made a frantic attempt to hump Stiles’s leg. But then Derek growled, and it pissed itself.

“I’m going to have hose down the steps now,” Scott said, sticking his head out the front door. He picked up the quivering dog and glared at Derek.

“Deaton’s in?” Derek asked, leaning around to sniff through the open door.

“He’s in,” Scott said, but not before arching a brow at the way Derek was gripping Stiles’s wrist.

“Come on,” Derek said, and well, Stiles got dragged inside.

Deaton was in the back, working on bottle-feeding a litter of kittens. When he saw Derek in the doorway, he insisted, “Stay back. I just have the one left. I don’t want to scare them, and I need to finish this. This little guy is refusing the bottle.”

Deaton meant Derek because he was a werewolf. Stiles wasn't a full blown werewolf, right? So Stiles shook his wrist free of Derek and darted right over. All five kittens turned his way—but instead of being fearful—they ran at him with a chorus of eager mews. Stiles sat down and let himself be piled on. Wet noses nudged at his fingers while feather-soft fur curled about his neck. Stiles wasn't sure he’d ever felt quite so loved. Deaton, meanwhile, approached him with the last kitten and bottle. “See if you can get him to take it,” he said.

Stiles took both kitten and bottle, and sure enough, the blue-eyed little bugger started sucking on the nipple, all the while staring up at Stiles with tiny contentment. Stiles looked up at Deaton, expecting a smile, _because clearly Stiles was magical and awesome_ , but er no, Deaton was watching him in horror. “You’re kidding,” Deaton said to Derek. “A gamma?”

“And a pack of alphas just arrived in town,” Derek said, closing his eyes and leaning against the door frame.

“One of them did this, or you did?” Deaton asked.

Derek adjusted his weight from right to left.

Oh, please. Stiles had had enough of this. “There was Delphinium extract and a bottle of tequila. That’s all you need to know.”

“But you’re not marked...” Deaton nodded, rubbing at his temple. “Well, that’s going to be a problem.”

“What’s a gamma?” Stiles asked, wincing when a kitten started clawing its way up his arm like a tree branch.

“Well, you know what alphas and betas are, and you've probably heard that omegas are lone wolves—they have no pack, but gammas play a different role.” Deaton looked deeply unsettled.

“And this different role would be?” Stiles pressed.

“Gammas are rare. Lycanthropy isn't a single gene transformation—given the obvious mutations in phenotype, it’s polygenetic. Alphas, of course, have even greater changes. Their saliva in particular takes on enzymes that host a particular pathogen which can transmit the mutation. Gammas are unique because while they are unable to cause the change themselves, the change can be triggered at the epigenetic level—”

“Deaton, Stiles doesn’t care. He needs to know why he’s in danger,” Derek snapped.

Stiles very much did care, actually. Unlike the barbarian in the doorway, he _liked_ science, but also, he did want to know why he was in danger, so he waited (as patiently as his ADHD would allow) for Deaton to explain. Deaton leaned down to scoop a kitten off Stiles’s shoulder. “A gamma is highly valuable to an alpha, because if an alpha has a gamma, he doesn't need betas to increase his strength. He doesn't need a pack at all. An alpha bonded to a gamma is at full-power, full control. Gammas, therefore, once discovered, are highly desired.”

“So I’m like a secret, all-powerful weapon?” Stiles could totally handle that. “And everyone wants me now? Because I am just hot.” 

Deaton wasn't acknowledging Stiles’s new amazingness, though. He was petting a kitten while ironically wearing a sad hound dog expression. Stiles felt he was missing something. “You keep talking about a bond? Please, define ‘bond.’”

“It’s the connection between you and the alpha. Once made, it cannot be transferred, except upon the death of the alpha.”

“And how does this bond occur?”

Deaton rubbed the back of his neck. “Pretty standard. It involves the mixing of fluids in internal body cavities. Also, a bite.”

That should have scared the crap out of Stiles, but no, instead he felt rather hot in his middle. He was also very much avoiding Derek’s gaze right now. “And what about my new smell?”

“That would be the activated pheromones.” Deaton nodded.

Scott chose this moment to poke his head in the door. “So that’s why he smells nice? It’s kind of weird, like zesty, like someone just opened a can of Sprite—but after a second, it gets sweet, like morning roses just opening.”

“Did you really just tell me I smell like morning fucking roses?” Stiles glared at his best friend.

“The smell to betas wouldn't be that strong. To alphas, however...” Deaton gave Derek a sidelong glance.

“What can we do to fix this?” Derek said, eyes fixed on Deaton.

“In the long term—he will need to bond. It’s safest, but in the short term, we’ll need to disguise Stiles's scent as much as possible. Frequent showers, intense exfoliation with strong cover scents will help. Stiles’s house can be guarded with mountain ash. When you leave home, though, you’ll need protection. Unbonded gammas aren't much stronger than humans, although you do have certain benefits, like fast healing and near complete control on the full moon.”

“So what you’re basically telling me is that I’m like the lamest werewolf ever.” Stiles groaned. In response, the kittens collectively mewed. Stiles immediately set to petting them again. “Yeah, see, apparently, I am so unthreatening that kittens defend me.”

“Hasn't that always been the case?” Scott asked.

Stiles threw the milk bottle at him.

\- - -

The rest of the early evening was spent warding Stiles’s house. He had to do lots of very voodoo-y things like hang crystal wind chimes and collect hairs from Scott, Derek, and Isaac so they could be burned them in a clay bowl with a drop of his own blood. (This was so they could cross the barrier as they pleased.) The real cake-taker, though, was when he read Deaton’s instructions that he needed to piss on his own doorstep. Scott pretty much went into hysterics over that one, but then he’d actually been helpful and covered Stiles from the neighborhood's view while he’d pissed out his initials. Once the mountain ash was down, Derek disappeared, claiming he had “matters to attend to.”

Scott invited himself over for dinner. Stiles—not really wanting to be alone at the moment—was okay with this. Well, mostly. Until Scott decided to get nosy. More specifically, he had just taken chicken out of the oven when Scott asked, “So you like— _what_ —suddenly like guys now?”

Stiles took off the oven mitts. One at a time. “I still like girls. A lot. And no, I do not want to talk about what happened with Derek.”

“I don’t want details.” Scott stuck his tongue out, making an “ugh” face. “But like, he’s older than you, and um—he didn't like force you?”

Stiles almost dropped the rosemary chicken. “Yes, Scott, because as a seventeen-year-old male who has spent far too much time on the internet—my purity must suddenly be in mortal peril, and yeah, your big, ugly and ancient alpha, with his perfect teeth and hair, and oh, right, all of those perfectly chiseled muscles forced me to drunkenly lose my mind and _suck_ his face!”

Scott was waving his hands, but Stiles wasn't stopping—he only took a breath at the end of his rant. This naturally was the moment when Stiles heard a creak behind him. He turned around, and there was his dad.

God hated him.

“Big day, then?” Dad said, more or less choking out the words before holding up the bag in his hands. “I brought home brownies.”

\- - -

Stiles had to go through an hour of “I love you no matter what” themed conversation, followed by a re-attempt at the sex talk but this time with things his dad learned from his Rasta bisexual friend named Rico in college. Scott was no help. He kept snickering red-faced into his fist. There was only so much Stiles could handle in a day.

Or so he thought. That was until his dad, fingering the holster on his gun, asked, “So who was this fella?”

Stiles simply lost it at this point. He chucked a brownie at Scott and declared his intent to go to bed _immediately_ , but when he opened his bedroom door, Derek was on his bed, reading Stiles’s Avengers comic with a confused expression. “I have news,” he said, without setting down the comic.

“And you have to be laid out on my bed to tell me this?” Stiles was trying to imagine boobs: nice, round, apple-shaped female lovelies. It wasn't working. The angle of Derek’s hip bones poking up under his t-shirt was cruel and distracting.

“I don’t have a bed. I just sleep on the couch, so it’s nice.” Derek did sit up, though.

Stiles very briefly wondered if Derek was being flirty. He tried to sniff the air to see if his new wolf skills could detect any such emotions, but, um, not so much—the smelliest things in the room were his shoes.

Meanwhile, Derek was frowning at him. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar. You were sniffing.”

“What’s the news?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “Tonight we’re going to meet Carmen’s pack. We’re going to talk.”

“About me?” Stiles urged.

“They’re not here because of you. If we explain to them that you are under eighteen and that your dad is the Beacon Hill’s Sheriff—I think we’ll be able to reach an agreement. Carmen, despite her earlier behavior, is aware of this.”

“Mmkay. Why are they here, anyway?”

But Derek kept talking. “I am proposing that none of them come near you until you’re legally an adult. Then you can make your own decision—”

“Wait—what? Dumbass, that’s in like… three weeks!”

“Three weeks?” Derek blanched. “How is that even possible?” His head tilted to the side. “Were you held back?”

Stiles _hated_ these conversations. “My mom was overprotective. And I was a preemie baby! If we’re counting from conception, I’m right on schedule.” Derek remained frowning at Stiles. “Why, how old did you think I was?”

“Younger.” Derek crossed his arms.

“Oh, fuck. You don’t have some sort of weird, guilty, I-statutorily-drunk-molested Stiles thing, do you?”

“You’re underage. I am not. It’s that simple.”

“Yes, by a whole three weeks, and if only anything in my life was actually _simple_ ,” Stiles scoffed.

“Your dad could arrest me. Also, it's not just your age. You have a crush on Lydia.”

Except that now Lydia’s tiny waist affected his thoughts drastically less—which Derek didn't need to know. “So you’re like ‘straight’ again?” Stiles used air quotes on that dumb word, because Stiles doubted he’d ever meet a straight man who’d clean up Stiles post-orgasm mess with quite that much zeal. Drunk or not.

Derek jerked his gaze away.

Interesting. “Do you regret yesterday?” Stiles asked, because he needed to know.

Derek sucked in a breath. “I have to.”

“Well, maybe _I_ liked it.” As soon as the confession slipped out of his mouth, Stiles didn't know why he’d said it—except that now he couldn't take it back, because Derek was a damn, full-fledged alpha werewolf, and he’d know that Stiles was lying.

Of course, Derek was not looking at him. “We leave as soon as your father goes to sleep. The entire pack, even Peter, is going to accompany us. You’ll be safe.”

\- - -

They met at the abandoned bowling alley. Carmen’s pack was already there. Stiles could hear them. Hell, he could _feel_ them, given the way the walls were shaking from the bass. Yeah, Lydia had mentioned something about her sister being in a band, but really, how does one prepare oneself for the sight of five red-hooded werewolves doing a gravelly-sounding cover of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody”? Overall, Stiles thought their cover job was pretty good. When they finished, he clapped (no matter that stupid, sexy Derek was glaring at him).

The lead singer, however, didn't even acknowledge them. He rounded on the rest of the band and, well, growled. In response, the other four members’ eyes lit up like Roman candles—no beta submission going on. These guys were all alphas. Stiles wondered how that worked, like did they have packs back home waiting for them? Were they born alphas? Did they go around stealing alphas? (As far as he was concerned, they could have Peter.) Or maybe it was like what happened with Peter using Lydia, and werewolf zombie-ism was their trippy alpha-making method.

“Not working!” the lead yelled, hands on his hips.

Carmen Martin was the one who answered. “Because your voice can only hit the bottom two of Freddie Mercury’s four octaves, and do you really want to argue in front of our...” She smiled right at Stiles. “...guests?” Given that beneath the red hood, Carmen was wearing fitted, black leather pants, Stiles was not having the easiest time remembering that he’d decided she was ugly. 

“That’s the unbonded gamma?” the lead singer asked, pointing right at Stiles.

Carmen nodded. “That’s Stiles.”

“Why are you here, and how can we get you to leave?” Derek asked, stepping in front of Stiles (which was totally not _territorial_ at all or anything).

“I’m Weston, by the way,” the lead singer said. “We’re here for two reasons. Firstly, we just lost our former lead singer. We needed a place to stay and practice while we figured out our new vocals. Carmen’s parents are hosting us.”

“The other reason?” Derek asked.

Weston smiled with too many teeth. “We’re investigating the reason for his death." 

“And you think you’ll find your answer in Beacon Hills?” Derek asked.

Carmen let lose an angry strum on her guitar. “We’re certain.”

“There are Argents in town. Are you aware?” Derek asked. 

“We’re aware, and we’re not worried.” Weston rolled his eyes. “And now as for Stiles…”

“You’re going to leave Stiles alone,” Derek said—and there was definitely a bit of _snap_ to his tone.

Nobody missed that--which was probably why Carmen was grinning when she said, “We've already decided that one of us claiming him would breed discord among our band, and given how important _harmony_ is to us…” Stiles couldn't help his beleaguered groan. Carmen continued, “…we've decided to let Stiles take his time to choose. And given that he’s so young, it’d be hard to take him on the road with us, all of that. And we do have our very public image to maintain.”

In front of him, Stiles heard Derek’s relieved exhale, but then Weston stepped forward. “We have just one little caveat.”

“No.” Derek’s back was tight again.

“Don’t be like that.” Carmen laughed. “It’s not your decision anyway. It’s Stiles’s. Didn't we just decide that?”

“What do you want?” Stiles asked, because he might as well hear it.

Weston waved Stiles forward. “We’d like you to sing.”

OH. 

FUCK. 

NO.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some violent images at the end of this chapter.

This time, Stiles kind of wanted to climb Derek—like a kitten up the tree. It would be safer up there, and he could hide. No one would have to hear his vocal chords tangling. Stiles wouldn't die of embarrassment. He could just snuggle his face in the warm, muscle-y crook of Derek’s neck and—yeah, thinking about Derek like that... _not_ a good idea right now.

“Um, really?” Scott piped up. “He’s pretty bad. Like, and by pretty bad, I mean awful.”

Scott, being Stiles’s best friend since childhood, knew how bad this idea really was. He’d had Stiles sing him Happy Birthday in a horribly bladdered pitch for multiple years running. He’d been there at the somewhat memorable seventh grade play where all Stiles had to do was sing “And away fly the pirates!” and yet had made the entire audience cover their ears. (One lady had shrieked.) Because Stiles, even as a little kid, hadn't had a cherubic voice. Straight up, the Stilinskis were not graced by the muses. “Wasn’t he the one who ruined our play?” Erica asked, brow furrowed.

Jackson answered. “Mr. Epperson kicked him out of choir as soon as he could.”

“Idonotwanttosing,” Stiles grumbled out, and yeah, maybe he was crossing his arms and pouting, but even the simple act of being asked to publicly humiliate himself was just so MEAN.

“Becoming a wolf alters your vocal chords. Even if you’re not better, you won’t have the same howl,” Peter said, finally coming forward. He’d totally been playing his usual Slytherin-self, hiding out behind the bowling ball shelf. Like a smart coward. So typical. But then Stiles wondered what his own House would be. Probably Ravenclaw. Scott was totally a Gryffindor, like Ron but with no chess skills. Lydia would be a Ravenclaw, too, but like a _slutty_ Ravenclaw. He considered what house Derek would be in. Because Derek wasn't dumb-brave like Scott nor was he a smart coward like Peter, and under no circumstances would he be a Hufflepuff. When Stiles thought about it, he was pretty sure Derek would baffle the Sorting Hat.

“Stiles will sing, but you need to keep away from him by at least ten feet,” Derek said.

Derek was _Voldemort._

“Um, _no_ , Stiles will not sing,” Stiles corrected him.

“Just sing something fast and quick,” Peter said, and then he winked at Stiles.

 _Ew._ Stiles made his best attempt at a snarl. Scott laughed because he was no longer Stiles’s friend. “Come on,” Derek said, and then he grabbed Stiles— _by the back of his collar_ —and dragged him toward all the band equipment.

Carmen came forward with sheet music. “Aw, if it will make you feel better, you can do a duet.”

“Did I not say ten feet?” Derek snapped, but he took the pages from her. Still, he did not appear to have any desire to abandon Stiles—only torture him. Though, when he leaned in close, his whisper was kind, encouraging. “Don’t look at anyone. Just read the page. We’ll do this and go home. I’ll go first. Just follow my lead.”

Stiles wondered if it was an alpha thing, or if it was normal to feel a tingly sensation when Derek spoke in full sentences, but whatever, Stiles brought the paper up to his nose. He was pretty sure he was supposed to do the second line. The first line read, “Dead on a wild plain—cyclones twist the weather vane—whiskey bottle set aflame.” Oh, and goodie, the music started up, and Stiles realized that this wasn't some dumb love song, it was kind of hard rock-ish.

Already pretty happy knowing he could just yell his lyrics, Stiles wasn't even really focused on the fact that he would be listening to Derek sing—except that Derek started singing. _Transfixed_ would be a mild word for Stiles’s reaction. Yeah, Derek’s voice was deep, but it was also quite scratchy and crazy resonant. Also, there was the way his Adam’s apple jiggled slightly and oh, yeah, how his stubbled jaw flexed. Stiles might have been leering. But then it was his turn, and Derek was giving him a look that said, “You can do this.”

Not all that helpful. Because all Stiles really wanted to _do_ right now was Derek.

Derek must have realized that Stiles wasn't going to even open his mouth unless Derek did something, because he leaned in, put his lips right up to Stiles’s ear and whispered, “Now fucking sing.”

Well, the next thing Stiles knew, he had his page in front of him—he was reading the words—and he was _singing._ When it was Derek’s turn again, Stiles didn't lower his page. He just sort of spied on Derek from behind his paper. And when it was his turn again, Stiles sang a few lines. Then there was this whole chorus thingy where they were actually singing together. Stiles was starting to think he didn't sound all that horrible. In fact their voices all mashed up together sounded kind of nice. Only, then the song ended, Stiles lowered his page, and everyone was gaping at him.

Erica, notably, was even shaking and crying. _Nooooo._ He had told them he was bad! Their little built in lie detectors should have _believed_ him! If Erica had a seizure because of him—It wasn't his FAULT. But then, wiping away her sniffles, Erica blubbered out, “That was so, so, so—so beautiful.” And then she just started crying again with two steady waterfalls flowing down her cheeks.

Stiles looked down at his page again. Hadn't it been about two men trying to find good ranch jobs, ones with good bars nearby with spicy chili?

“You sounded good,” Peter said, “kind of like Art Garfunkel.”

Stiles was confused. “Is that a cartoon?” The name _sounded_ like a cartoon.

Peter muttered something under his breath about “worthless youth.”

“And to think I just liked your smell,” Carmen said, bounding right up to Stiles.

“Back off,” Derek snapped.

“Oh, you weren't so bad either,” Carmen laughed. “In fact, I’d take both of you. Together. Right now.”

Stiles didn't think this was the worst idea he’d ever heard, but Derek was in full-on killjoy mood, because he said, “You've already promised to leave Stiles alone. You knew before he sang that gammas were known for their voices. This doesn't change anything. We’re leaving.” Then Derek more or less dragged Stiles out of the bowling alley.

\- - -

The next morning, it was Saturday. Scott must still be asleep (since he hadn't answered one of Stiles’s six texts) so Stiles shrugged on his winter coat, went out in his backyard, sat on the creaky old tire swing beneath the big maple, and well, thought about things. People thought Stiles couldn't be silent. That was a lie. He could totally be silent.

Except then he started thinking about his new voice, so he started humming. Stiles had never really imagined himself being in a rock band. He’d seen himself as more of a quirky professor or at worse, like, that IT guy who actually knows how to do his job—but being in a band could be a new level of awesome. He was imagining himself on stage, in front of women (...and men who looked like Derek...) ready to rip their shirts (and pants) off for him—that was, until he noticed all the birds in the tree. There were robins and cardinals and sparrows, and even a bold, red-headed wood pecker. Oh, and then he looked at the lawn surrounding him, and there were squirrels and white, fluffy-tailed bunny rabbits. They were, like, edging up to him with beatific looks on their little faces. Stiles wasn't threatened. They were little herbivores, and he was almost six feet tall. Only, then it occurred to him what was happening. With this gamma-thing, he wasn't a big bad rocker. Not at all.

He was a Disney-fucking-Princess. Fucking A. Of course, this was the moment when Lydia had to show up, striding across his lawn in a mini skirt with tiger-print tights and fire engine red lipstick. (Her sister being in town was even affecting her fashion sense.) Stiles's voice cracked as he flapped his arms, trying to dispel the swarm of critters. “Jackson told me all about your magical singing voice. Were you just seriously using it to summon the wildlife?”

“Wildlife?” Stiles hopped off the swing, crossing his arms across his chest. “I don’t see any wildlife.” When he peeked upward, all the critters were gone! They’d listened to his werewolf will and scrammed.

Lydia pointed up at the branch above him. A large hawk was perched. It’s black, beady eyes were glinting darkly at Stiles. Apparently, dangerous predators also had a thing for him these days. “Why are you here?” Stiles muttered, slumping back in the swing. It gave a sad, creaky whine as it swirled clockwise.

“My sister is a _werewolf_.” Lydia was wearing her “duh” face.

“She’s an alpha werewolf. In a rock band. She looks good in leather.”

Lydia scowled. “I talked to her last night. We had a family dinner.”

“She didn't steal your dessert, did she?”

“Her boyfriend just died. He was murdered. I know you know about this. Jackson said the band told you they’d just lost their lead singer.”

“Sounds like interesting dinner table conversation.”

“Funny. This was post-dinner. Do you know who her boyfriend was? It was _Nick Goldson._ ”

“Oh.” Stiles actually did know who that was. He’d been captain of the Lacrosse team the last time Beacon Hills had won State like eight years ago—as Coach Finstock liked to remind them. “So does that mean Goldson was a werewolf?”

“Uh, yeah,” Lydia snapped. “He was older than her, but unlike my sister, he actually went to college. He had a sports scholarship until he got injured or became a werewolf or something. Anyway, a month ago he was murdered.”

Stiles was rubbing his temples. “That’s a lot of werewolves coming out of Beacon Hills.”

“It explains why the Argents have a permanent base here, doesn't it?” 

“Do they think the Argents killed him?”

“Like she would tell me.”

“Your sister is kind of scary.”

“Watch out for her, Stiles. I mean it. When I was thirteen, she stole $400 bucks from our parents’ wallets and then blamed it on me. She even went so far as to buy this nail polish I really wanted and left it out on my vanity so my mom would see it and think I’d taken the money. She’s evil.”

“Um, Lydia, I don’t really want to get in the middle of your family issues…”

“Whatever. It just sucks…” She sighed, pouting very prettily. “Can I swing too?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll even push you,” Stiles said, getting up.

“Just don’t sing or hum,” Lydia warned. “I’m working on rebuilding my relationship with Jackson. I can’t have you serenading me away.”

Stiles was never going to understand the Jackson thing, but he was _nice_ , so he politely inquired, “How’s that going?”

“Nope. I want to talk about you and Derek.”

“No.”

But Lydia leaned back with a grin. “So, you were drunk, right? Did you get his shirt off? Did you lick, you know, _it_?”

“Lydia, I’m going to seduce you with a lullaby if you don’t shut up.”

After that, the tire swing creaked in peaceful silence.

\- - -

After Lydia left, the rest of the day was eerily normal. Scott came over, whined about Allison, and then they watched an _American Werewolf in London_ because Stiles was funny and appreciated irony like that. He also had burgers for lunch, and tried to see if the meat tasted any different. It really didn't.

His dad came home around five, and Scott said he had to go home because his mom was still adjusting to the whole my-son-is-a-werewolf thingy, and there was still a lot of awkwardness there, but regardless, it turned out that “family dinners” were now non-negotiable. Stiles played around with Garage Band for a while, testing out his new soul-stealing voice. But then too many birds kept smacking into his window so he had to stop.

When he went downstairs, his dad was passed out on the couch. A half-drunk bottle of beer was on the end table, and the game was just ending on the television. Stiles turned off the power, poured out the beer, and pulled a blanket over his dad. Then he realized he had nothing to do. Normally when he’d have extra _alone time_ , he’d go make use of it up in his bedroom. But he was just too confused these days, and what if he thought about Derek? (And yeah, he totally would.) Derek had like straight up rejected him yesterday. Stiles had spent most of his life imagining himself with people (like Lydia) who could never like him back, and the fact that he’d sort of done stuff with Derek and had some _sharp visuals_ in his mind—let’s just say that he didn't want to play in those gardens right now.

Stiles didn't want to feel pathetic.

He spent a few minutes staring at his reflection in the mirror, trying to see if he could make his eyes turn. Every now and then, he thought he saw some glow, but then, of course, he started thinking about what Lydia was saying that morning. About the band’s former lead singer and Carmen’s ex-boyfriend Nick Goldson. Stiles was pretty sure there had to be some news coverage. This led him to Google.

Nick Goldson, apparently, had died in a car accident. A tractor trailer had flipped onto the wrong side of the highway and pretty much his car had been pancaked against the front of it. The pictures were a little sickening. Also, given that Goldson was an alpha—way too fucking convenient. Stiles checked the date. It had been the night of a full moon. Oh, yes, foul play was at work. Now, what was interesting was that when Stiles looked for Goldson’s parents, it seemed they’d moved out of town a few years back. However, his brother, Quentin Goldson, was still in Beacon Hills, and when Stiles looked up his address, it turned out he lived at the end of Stiles’s street in the new complex of duplexes that surrounded the really nice pool. Stiles wrote down the number, and then well, he paused—because he wasn't supposed to _go out_ by himself.

He texted Scott. “I’d like to go for a walk now.”

No response.

He texted Isaac next. _Nada._

Weird. That kid had less of a life than Stiles.

Stiles thought about texting Derek. He really, really didn't want to text Derek.

Five minutes later, though, when none of his handlers had responded, he texted Derek. No damn response. So he group-texted all of them:

_Stepping out.  
98 Ridgewood Place, Unit B. _

And then he walked down his street like a normal person.

Lo and behold, no big werewolves jumped out of the bushes and tried to nibble on his neck. In fact, he walked right up to Unit B and knocked on the door without a hitch. That was, until his knock sent the door swinging open.

The smell hit his nostrils in a way it never had before. But Stiles recognized it instantly: blood. This was bad, like super crazy bad. Stiles leaned forward, peaking his head in. Strewn out in the middle of the living room floor was a large man in his late twenties. It had to be Quentin. There was blood seeping from a wound in his chest, but um, what was really messed up was that he was still alive. He was looking directly at Stiles.

“Oh, crap, let me call an ambulance.” But Stiles’s fingers weren't hitting the buttons right. Finally, he punched in the number, and then Stiles ran up to the guy, taking off his jacket as he tried to see what he could do. Maybe if he could bandage the wound, there would be enough time for the paramedics to get there, and Stiles could explain that he was just walking around his neighborhood—because yeah, some Americans used their sidewalks for things other than dog walking—and he heard some shouts, ran inside, and found Quentin bleeding death. It would be okay. He just needed to breathe, apply pressure, and it would all be okay. It would be okay.

Quentin’s lips were moving.

“Shhh,” Stiles whispered.

“Lau—” He was trying to say something.

“You really don’t need to plug your lungs full of more blood,” Stiles insisted.

“Laura,” the man spit out. 

Oh, crap. “Laura Hale?” Stiles asked. “Are you talking about Laura _Hale_?”

But the man didn't reply back. He started coughing—and Stiles didn't have any medical knowledge. This perfectly nice man was going to die in front of him. 

“No, no, no,” Stiles cried, pushing on the man’s chest, trying to keep him breathing.

The man’s eyes widened. A small convulsion shook through his body, and then all was still. He was dead.

Stepping back from the body, Stiles’s hands were covered in blood. His shook them because he wasn't going to wipe them off on his jeans. He needed to rinse them in the sink. That was when he turned around and walked smack into Peter Hale.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> VERY SERIOUS WARNINGS. This chapter is SUPER DARK (still comedic but um, dark). It's got non-violent paranormal non!con sexual acts--and like, IS VERY TRIGGERY. If you like hurt/comfort and angst mixed with your humor, you will be very happy with me, but others of you might be saying THIS WAS MY BUNNIES & KITTENS STORY, you BEEYATCH, so regardless, I really just set the basic plot and let the characters go crazy on their own, so I didn't know this was going to happen until it did. So I apologize if you need to skip/skim.

Stiles bounced right off of Peter’s chest, but Peter caught his wrists, saying “It’s okay. It’s just me.”

(Creepy) Peter saying _just me_ was not remotely okay. Stiles was eerily reminded of the last time he was alone with Peter, and how the man had dragged his finger up Stiles’s wrist and offered to bite him. Back then, every instinct in Stiles had screamed “NO!” and right now, his feelings weren't much different. ‘Cause, yeah, there was still blood on Stiles’s hands. Someone had just been murdered. The sole comfort was that Stiles didn't see any blood on Peter, but regardless, he took a step back, pointing toward Quentin’s body. “How did you know to come here?”

Peter nodded, stepping around Stiles to get a look at the body. “Sorry I didn't get here sooner. Jackson got rear-ended on the way to their pack meeting, and let’s say that to control his little temper tantrum, Derek had to summon the whole pack. He left his phone behind in the rush.” Peter held up Derek’s phone with Stiles’s text showing. “I came as quickly as I could.”

Stiles took a breath. “Quentin said ‘Laura.’” And oh, wasn't it just interesting that the person who had crazy-murdered Laura Hale was standing in front of him?

Peter shrugged. “Lots of Laura’s out there, although there’s no denying the connection to my niece. She and Nick Goldson dated for years. In fact, they were engaged for a short while, until Laura broke it off.”

Well, oh fuck. “Seriously?”

“I don’t know all the details. I was burned and in a coma for most of that time.”

 _Convenient_ , Stiles thought, but he didn't say that.

“Come on, Stiles,” Peter said, pushing on his back. “Let’s get the blood off of you.”

In the kitchen, the sink was full of dishes. By the leftover crusts, Quentin’s last meal had been an olive pizza. Peter turned on the faucet while Stiles stuck his hands beneath the cool stream. He had to scratch between his finger creases to get all of the blood out. The red stream mixed with some oil left on the plates, and Stiles felt a sudden need to pick them all up and start washing them all. It wasn't right for a person to die and have so many things left unfinished. He was just standing there, letting his hands sit in the water, when Peter pressed up against him from behind.

“What the fuck? Off me,” Stiles snapped, flipping the knob and stepping away.

But Peter grabbed him again, this time leaning into his neck. “But you smell so...” Peter's exhale rattled as he closed his eyes.

“Like morning roses, everyone tells me.” Stiles couldn't tell exactly what was going on. If Peter was just being weird and aggressive—or if this was something more… dangerous. This was the problem with sociopaths.

Peter chuckled, right next to Stiles’s ear, and said, “Better.”

Stiles considered attempting to punch him, but considering that Peter was a thousand times stronger than him, even post-pushing daisies, Stiles decided to take the other route. “The paramedics are on their way. We need to come up with a way to explain this.”

Peter laughed. “No, they’re not.”

Stiles froze. “I called them.”

“On a cell phone—and you didn't actually tell them the address. You dropped the phone the minute the call connected. It went straight to the Beacon Hills emergency response line—which, Stiles, they know your number, because you've called them before haven’t you?”

Once or twice. His dad hadn't been picking up his cell. And Stiles had important father-son messages to deliver.

Peter laughed. “I’d make a joke about ‘Peter called wolf,’ but it doesn't quite fit.”

Stiles wasn't laughing. The situation had just slunk from creepy to insane. With a smile on his face, Stiles slid his hand back into the sink. He’d seen the glint of a knife when he’d washed his hands.

“Don’t even think about it,” Peter said yanking Stiles’s arms forward, and then before Stiles could really _think at all_ , Peter whipped him around, slamming against the fridge door. Magnets poked Stiles in the back before falling to the floor.

“Is this normally how you woo?” Stiles snapped. “Because there’s a little something lacking, like, I don’t know— _consent_?”

Peter smirked. “Oh, don’t be that way, Stiles. Maybe I’m not dark and Byronic like my nephew, but I think I make up for it with my fabulous cheekbones and daggered wit, wouldn't you say?”

“I'll admit, your cheekbones aren't doughy, but the whole Tim-Burton thing really kills my interest. Like, when I think of you, I think of worms beneath the floorboards and how you killed your own niece for power, and it’s not really on my list of kinks. Not to mention, dumbass, that you’re trying to seduce me when there’s a dead man in the other room whose _blood still hasn't run cold_.”

“Don’t be picky, Stiles.”

Only an insane werewolf would say something like that. Still, whatever argument Stiles was going to muster—it was cut off when Peter grabbed either side of his jaw and kissed him. Weirdly, it wasn't at all what Stiles expected. Not gentle, but no teeth, either. More like lips-only gnawing. Stiles was the one who tried to bite. As hard as he could. Peter let him. He just laughed, a chuckling hollow sound that seemed to pass from his lungs into Stiles’s. “Do it again,” Peter murmured.

Stiles could taste Peter’s blood on his tongue. And no, very bad, since it actually tasted _good_ , almost euphoric, like Stiles could want more—and he did _not_ want more. He wrenched his chin away. “Just don’t. Stop.” Breathless, his voice had no strength. 

“You don’t know how this works, do you?” Peter was shaking his head. “I’m not going to hurt you, Stiles. I’m not going to do anything you won’t like.” He grinned, and then he pushed the button on Stiles’s jeans.

When Peter’s hand closed around Stiles’s erection, Stiles hated that he was seventeen. He hated that he was a worthless gamma and that the taste of Peter’s blood in his mouth was still making his head swim like a drug. And most of all Stiles hated that when Peter started pulling him off, nosing his ear and licking at his neck, Stiles got even harder. “I don’t want this,” he said, but the protest was so pathetic.

“Your body says otherwise.”

“If you didn't have it pinned, my fist would be in your face.”

“Look at your reflection. Your eyes are shining.” Peter pointed at the mirror on the other side of the room.

Stiles twisted to see his eyes were shimmering fucking neon. When he flinched, Peter shushed him, all the while keeping a hot, tight pace on Stiles’s dick. “Calm down. It’s just your wolf showing. Let it go. Let him have what he wants.”

Stiles shook his head, but fuck, he was getting close. He could feel the tension building in his spine. Forcing himself to breath, he tried to fight it. But God, he couldn't get his breathing under control. He tried to think of unsexy things like maggots and fully-body burns and locker room jockstrap stink—but it just wasn't’t working. Peter had him pinned and was keeping a perfect fucking pace, probably by monitoring Stiles’s heartbeat, and yeah, his body was being fucking played like an instrument, and he was-going-to-become-a-sociopath’splaythingandnoNOnoNO.

“Let go, Stiles.” Peter’s eyes were flame red, his canines long. “Come into my hand, then I’ll lick it up, bite you, and the two of us will be unstoppable. Do it. Let go.”

And Stiles’s whole body, it started to clench—

Stiles saw the hunched, black shape fly through the doorway a millisecond before Peter reacted, twisting so that Stiles was tossed on the floor while Peter charged at the shape.

Derek.

Peter did not have the advantage. When he swung his claws out, Derek easily dodged and retaliated with a blow that sent Peter wheeling across the floor. It was all Stiles could do to get his dick back in his jeans and dive behind the kitchen island so he could stay the fuck out of the way. Peter took a cast iron pan—and swung it at Derek, but Derek twisted it around, breaking Peter’s wrist with a nasty crack. A hiss and a shriek followed.

When Stiles peeked over the counter top, Peter had his neck bared, and Derek was standing, tall and unbroken, above him. “Leave,” Derek growled. “Leave now before I bury you again.”

“Oh, be nice, like I was going to miss an easy opportunity to get all my strength back.”

“Leave.”

Peter sat up, glaring, before hopping to his feet. He gave Stiles a single, smarmy-ass smile before heading for the door.

At the slam of the front door, Derek walked toward Stiles slowly—Stiles would even say _deliberately_ —because each step coincided with a long sharp, breath, and Stiles was trying to decide if he should go the complete-meltdown route or possibly the let’s-pretend-that-never-happened route where he could ask Derek lots of questions about his dead sister’s love life, or alternatively, Stiles should just run. He should hightail it the fuck out of there.

Derek rounded the island. His grey wife-beater was torn with a bloodied, broken flap showing off his upper abs, and Stiles took none of those routes. Instead, he leaned back on his elbows and looked at Derek, taking in the way his features were slowly transforming back into their human countenance. And then Stiles said, “Thank you.” Stiles heard the grind of Derek’s teeth, despite the fact that he didn't so much as blink. “Um, super thank you?”

Derek dropped to his knees, and then he was gathering Stiles against him, tucking Stiles’s face into his neck, running his hands up and down Stiles’s back like he could pet away the terror. Stiles’s brain was already pretty mashed, given the evening he’d had so far, but then all of the sensory memory of the last time he and Derek were like this came parading back, and it wasn't only melting neurons, Stiles just fucking _combusted_ , so much that he was shaking, half-wanting to cry, half-wanting to scream. But mostly, he was holding onto Derek as tight as he could.

They stayed like that—immobile on the cold kitchen tiles—until Derek pulled back, not looking at Stiles and said, “I am going to take you home, and then I need to deal with this.”

“I can help.”

Derek closed his eyes. “Stiles, don’t do that again. Don’t go off on your own. Next time, wait.”

“I’ll wait.”

Derek nodded. He knew Stiles wasn't lying. “If we’re going to move, you need to let go of me.” But Stiles didn't let go of Derek. Yeah, Stiles was very aware of all of the badness that surrounded him, but nor could he stop himself from leaning up and pressing his mouth to Derek’s.

There was one long second in which Stile's tongue was sliding against Derek’s. He felt teeth the sharp teeth scrape against his upper lip. That was, until Derek jerked back like Stiles had stung him.

Derek wasn’t looking at him when he said, “You taste like him,” and then pushed Stiles away and walked to the other side of the kitchen.

Stiles wanted to throw up—which, given it was a crime scene, was an especially bad thing.

“Scott is outside,” Derek said. “He’ll walk you back to your place. Don’t go off on your own again.”

Derek was the one who left, and then in his place, Scott was there along with Erica. Both were giving him wary, hesitant looks. Stiles stood and walked out without looking back. He heard their steps trailing behind him, but he didn't care to talk. Not even to his best friend. He unlocked his front door, walked up the steps, and crawled into bed.

That night he dreamed of someone caressing his cheek. But when he woke up the next morning—he wanted to punch his own traitorous imagination. He was going batshit. Not to mention, it was Sunday morning, and he was awake at 7:40 a.m. That’s when he turned to face his window and realized the sunlight was blaring in.

Someone had left the curtains open.

\- - -

Stiles drank an entire pot of coffee. Then he sat and thought about what he needed to do.

1\. Take the longest, bleachiest shower ever.  
2\. Stay the hell away from Peter  
3\. Find out who murdered Quentin—and this time, without compromising his dad’s job  
4\. Figure out how “Laura” fit into this mess  
5\. Make his dad breakfast


He did the last bit first, the egg-white usual, but then he thought about how to solve the rest of the mess. Derek wasn't going to tell him about Laura. And Stiles didn’t want to talk to Carmen’s evil band people. However, there was one person in town who had known Laura Hale and happened to actually be nice.

He texted Scott:

_Have you left for Deaton’s yet?_


	6. Chapter 6

Deaton and Scott were busy. Besides the usual round up of vaccinations and flea dips, there was a golden retriever puppy who ate a pot of daisies and a Siamese with a broken leg. Stiles helped when he could, asking lots of questions and making fun of Scott when all of the animals liked Stiles better. It was late in the morning before Stiles finally got a chance to ask Deaton about Laura Hale and Nick Goldson. When he did, Deaton froze. “That’s rather personal.”

“Except that now Nick Goldson, Quentin Goldson, and Laura Hale are all dead.”

Deaton’s gaze drifted to the window. “I heard it on the radio this morning.”

“So… Nick and Laura?”

Deaton pulled the latex gloves off his hands. “What do you know about wild wolves, Stiles?”

“Er, the usual? They hunt in pack. They eat all the cute forest creatures.”

Deaton pointed at the wall, where a mountain scene, complete with wolves and a moose, was panoramically depicted. “With wild wolves, there’s never just one alpha—there are always two: a male and a female. They take in most of the food from the kills, so it’s the female alpha that bears the next generation of pups for the pack.”

“Oo-kay? So is this the part where you tell me that Derek needs to find a girlfriend?”

“No. What I’m telling you is... It’s not something you should go spreading around. When an unbonded alpha chooses a mate, it starts the hormonal process, and then when the female, alpha or not, becomes pregnant, it triggers the alpha process in the mate. The mate becomes an alpha too.”

Stiles blinked a lot before he finally put it all together. “Laura and Nick Goldson used to date. They were engaged—she became an alpha. Are you saying that she turned Nick Goldson into an alpha?”

Deaton nodded. “She consulted me when she became pregnant. That’s how I knew about it. She ended up losing the baby for various reasons.”

Um, fuck. Stiles swallowed. He wondered if Derek knew. “So her pregnancy activated Nick’s change even though they didn't stay together?” Stiles asked.

“They had already been having problems. She was still grieving for her old family, trying to heal that wound. Nick wanted to focus on their new one. That’s why they broke it off soon after she lost the baby.”

“Holy shit, so that’s how the band has so many alphas? Do you think they like all had 'whoopsies' together?”

Deaton shook his head wearily. “Wolves take mating very, very seriously. Once a bond is sealed, it’s rare for couples to break. Normally, it requires a death.”

Now Stiles was thinking about Carmen—she had been Goldson’s “girl friend.” But was that really true? Was she his girlfriend, or was she his mate? She was an alpha. Had she had a miscarriage too? That would be insanely dramatic, but then they were in a band, and who had more angst than music-people?

“There’s one other thing,” Deaton said. His tone was bleak.

“Yes…” Stiles waited.

“Something you should know about. There’s one other way to become an alpha—and it’s the reason why Derek has only trusted you with Scott and Isaac.”

Stiles winced over Derek’s name, but then he considered the facts laid out in their previous conversation and he asked, “Oh my God, betas can get me pregnant?”

The corner of Deaton’s mouth turned up. “That would be anatomically impossible.”

Oh. Oh, good. Right. “Um, but if they mate with me?”

“If a beta forms a soul bond with you, they can become an alpha. Yes.”

“More problems.” Stiles groaned into his palms.

“Seriously, get over yourself,” Scott said coming into the room. “Despite smelling floral, most of us would not rather be stuck with you for life.”

“I don’t appreciate that,” Stiles snapped.

“Um, so do we think Lydia’s sister did this? Like some sort of crazy jealous rage thing?” Scott dumped a sack of what was definitely dog shit into the trash.

“I don’t think so,” Deaton said.

“Have you met her?” Stiles asked. “She’s a little scary, but then again, that might be all the black leather.”

“I haven’t met her.” Deaton walked over to the counter, and he began sorting through a box. “But I have listened to her music.” That’s when he pulled out the CD that had “Devil’s Helmet” scrawled across the front with the image of a woman—definitely Carmen—front and center.

“Have a listen,” Deaton said, and then he popped in the CD.

\- - -

It wasn't the lyrics. It wasn't even the music that convinced Stiles. It was the way Carmen and Nick sang to each other. There was so much stupid, pure love in the back and forth. When their voices merged, the combination was pitch-perfect. No competition. No upstaging. That’s when Stiles realized—that’s what being mates meant: a harmony of two souls.

It made him think of his own mom and dad. God, they'd been happy. He might have teared-up a little, because hell, they were singing about “boxed macaroni on a budget but kisses by the buckets.” Except now there couldn't be any more crappy carbohydrates and cold weather snuggles, because Nick was dead—and no wonder Carmen came off as mean. She’d lost the love of her life. When he looked up, Scott was frowning at him, so Stiles flipped him off. Jerk. Thankfully, Deaton looked as sad as Stiles. “They’d just gotten signed by a large label right before Nick died. Since he was lead vocals at the point, their contract was dropped.”

“But how would the band have anything to do with Quentin getting murdered?” Scott asked.

“He was human, but he must have known something,” Stiles said.

“I have no idea. The most likely suspects are either the Argents or a rival band—but really, neither of you two should be involved in this,” Deaton insisted. “Scott, you need to focus on your grades, and Stiles, you cannot run around on your own.” Considering that Stiles was pretty much warded in the vet clinic until Scott could take him home on his lunch break—he thought the warning was total overkill.

Deaton sighed. “I can’t say I understand what you’re going through, but you don’t have lots of options. If you weren't in Beacon Hills, you could probably hide yourself—but between the band and the pack in-town, the situation is dangerous. As an unbonded gamma, you’d be much safer, if you either left town or settled on a mate.”

“Because that’s so easy,” Stiles muttered. “What am I supposed to do? I’m not good at hiding. I’m too loud. I say things I don’t mean to.”

Scott was nodding in agreement.

Stiles threw his hands up. “It’s just ridiculous. Like, did I unwittingly sign up for the werewolf season of The Bachelor? I bet it'd be a hit with the studio executives. We can populate the contestants with hot werewolves, and then if I ‘click’ with any, we can have a magical fucking mating ceremony!”

“Uh…” Deaton was open-mouthed.

“There could be a full-moon special.” Scott laughed.

“As long as no one eats me or forces me—I’d go with it. I don’t even care.”

Scott stopped laughing.

It was only later, when Scott was driving him home, that Stiles realized what he needed to do. “So, do you think I should just ask Derek to be my mate?”

The car veered a little too far to the left for Stiles’s tastes. “Um, why would you do that?” Scott’s voice was weird high.

“Are you nervous because of the gay-thing of the he’s-your-alpha thing?”

“Neither—I just—it’s just a really big deal. Like, an alpha’s mate… That’s a big deal to wolves.”

“You've never even met an alpha’s mate.”

“I don’t know. I have a sense about it, though. It’s like marriage, like Deaton said.”

“Or is this something else? Do you think Derek will reject me?” Stiles’s eyes widened. “That’s totally it. You smelled emotions and stuff, and you think he’s going to reject me.”

Scott looked really uncomfortable. “Derek was angry and well, he always smells like guilt—and wolves have crazy instincts, Stiles. Yeah, I know he’s attracted to you. All the alphas smell, um, like _that_ around you because you smell nice and rosy and shit, so I don’t know _what to tell you_ , okay?”

“Believe it or not, I’m not a girl. I can be the one to ask.”

“Fine, _ask_.”

So Stiles picked up his phone and typed out a text to Derek: _Too many mixed signals. Do you want to be my mate? You can have nifty alpha powers. Answer yes or no._ But then he showed it to Scott.

Scott rubbed his forehead, groaning. “What are you, _four_? First off… Oh wait a minute.” They were pulling into Stiles’s driveway. “You can’t make him wonder. You need to be clear. So text something like…”:

When Scott gave Stiles phone back to him, it said: _I need to choose a mate for my safety by the end of the week. Last night made that clear. You are my first choice. Yes?_

“Like that’s any less elementary school.” Stiles grabbed the phone from him.

“Which of us has actually been in a relationship?”

“Whatever, dumbass I’m sending it.” Stiles hit the button, and then cringed. “Wait—why did I just do that?”

“Um.” Scott also looked confused.

To make things even more insane, Lydia was waiting for them at Stiles’s house. Sitting on Stiles’s front porch, Lydia’s arms were crossed and she was fuming. “I’m supposed to give you this.” Lydia thrust a flyer at Stiles’s face.

It was for a concert. Three towns over. And yeah, the main band that was playing was Devil’s Helmet.

“You’re invited to sing with them. I’m also supposed to give you this—” She thrust a folder at him. “And this.” Next it was a CD. “Because apparently there’s some big invisible shield around your house that blocks my sister from running her own errands.”

Lydia had no idea about her sister losing the love of her life and all the beautiful duets they made together. Stiles scratched his head. “It’s called mountain ash?”

“That’s nice.” She marched past him and into his house. “Do you have any more chocolate in your house? You always seem to have chocolate in the back of your freezer.”

“There’s not supposed to be chocolate back there…” Stiles grumbled. But if there was, better that Lydia ate it than Stiles’s dad.

Scott left to go back to the clinic. Stiles was busy pouring Lydia a glass of milk when Derek’s reply text came back: _Stiles, I’m sorry. I can’t._

Stiles dropped the pitcher of milk.

“Well, um, crap,” Lydia said, grabbing a towel. “You look like someone killed your puppy.”

“It’s nothing,” Stiles said, and then he stole the chocolate from Lydia.

But Lydia let it happen because she was grabbing Stiles’s phone. “Oh—wait—no. He did not reject you!”

Stiles shrugged. “It’s not like you didn't reject me time and time again.”

“No,” Lydia sighed. “That was different. I didn't even notice you.”

“Right.” Stiles crunched sadly down on the chocolate bar.

After this, Lydia spent the next five minutes grilling him on Derek and being a gamma and all of his _feelings_. “So, you’re looking for an alpha boyfriend or girlfriend?” Lydia was frowning, scrolling through his texts.

He grabbed his phone from her. “Stop that. And boyfriend or girlfriend—whatever. I’m flexible.”

“They’d be lucky to have you,” Lydia said, wringing out the milk-sodden cloth in the sink.

“Stop being nice. It’s weird.”

“But I mean it,” she protested. “And Derek is only one big, sexy freak. There are tons of others to choose from in this town alone. Some of my sister’s band members aren't so bad. Weston is crazy hot. He has some really, um, interesting piercings in not so visible places.” No joke, Lydia was blushing. “I think the bass player and drummer might be together. I’m not sure. The girl that does the piano is cute.”

Stiles looked down at the flyer in his hand. “Are you going to the concert?”

“Given that Carmen was going to be there, I wasn't planning on it, but…” She smiled at him. “Maybe I should. I’ll get to Jackson to come—and you’ll make sure Scott and Isaac come so you’ll be protected. Then you can seduce everyone with your voice. It’ll be hot.”

“Not hot. I’m possibly _adorable_ and worse, endearing but not hot.”

Lydia looked him up and down with terrifying resolve. “We’re going to make you hot.”

“If you’re thinking about putting guy-liner on me…” Stiles threatened.

“Oh come on. It’ll be fun.”

Stiles thought about it. By spending more time with the band members, he would be able to learn more about who was after the Goldson brothers. Not that he was going to tell Lydia that. “Well, since your sister will be there,” Stiles joked, mustering a smile. “Because she’s seriously smokin’.”

“Don’t even think about it,” Lydia hissed, before snatching up one of the pages of music. “Maybe we should practice.”

They got a pint of ice cream and then started to go through the lyrics. 

“I hate you,” Lydia declared at the end. “You made me eat half the pint.”

“Hey, I didn't make you do anything,” Stiles complained. “And the rest is mine.” He tried to grab it from her.

She easily evaded his swipe, watching him with wide eyes. “It’s freaky. I seriously want to lick you while you’re singing.”

“Uh, you do have a boyfriend…” 

Lydia nodded along with him as she repeated, "I have a boyfriend." 

In the end, he let her keep the pint.


	7. Chapter 7

Monday and Tuesday passed in something of a blur. Lydia was glued to his side a lot, which was awkward, because that meant Jackson was around, and since Jackson was around, Danny was around. No one was more confused than Danny as to how Stiles had morphed into Lydia’s bi-best friend in less than a month. Regardless, Stiles ignored the weird looks and quizzed Scott for their econ test, which wasn't so bad, because Scott got a B-. (And he would have done even better, but the dumbass forgot to label his graphs again.) Stiles got an A. Still, Finstock was looking as pleased as a pickle over the whole star-lacrosse-player-not-failing thing.

Stiles didn’t miss how no one mentioned Derek to him.

On Wednesday, the day of the concert, Lydia came home after school with him. She brought Danny and clothes. “If you’re going to put him in black, then you need layers,” Danny said. “He’s too skinny otherwise.”

“It’s dickish to call a teenage male ‘skinny,’” Stiles complained, but Lydia was nodding.

“I’m thinking battered and ripped up, like a ruined angel. Do you have scissors?” she asked, and then she began yanking open Stiles’s _very personal_ desk drawers.

“I have a lighter,” Danny said, pulling it out of his pocket.

“A lighter? What are you going to do?” Stiles was following Lydia, trying to keep her ransacking under control. “Conduct arson on my clothing?”

Lydia and Danny nodded in unison.

Two hours later, Stiles’s “look” went way beyond your typical band boy getup. “This is so wrong,” Stiles moaned into his hands. “I look like a down-on-my-luck rent boy.”

Danny bit his bottom lip. “Is that a bad thing?”

But Lydia was shaking her head. “Don’t be overly dramatic. You look hot. You look like you need to be _saved_.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I prefer to think of myself as the underestimated hero.”

Neither Danny nor Lydia seemed to take this statement seriously.

\- - -

It was like an hour and a half drive to the club, which was saying something given that Lydia’s driving made her mother’s look tortoise-paced. Scott, Erica, and Isaac were piled somewhat uncomfortably in the back. Jackson and Boyd were in Danny’s car (Jackson’s car was still in the shop from the rear-ending). When they arrived, Stiles only made it three feet from Lydia’s car before Carmen was there, running right up to him and encasing him in a rather snuffly hug. This set off a growl chorus from the surrounding betas.

Three days ago, Stiles might have been offended, but now he thought Carmen deserved all the hugs she could get. Realizing he was hugging her back, she laughed and then pulled Stiles even tighter. “Oh trust me, if this bitch wanted him, she’d have had him.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, but then Carmen put a mega smooch of magenta lipstick on his cheek.

There was another growl chorus.

Lydia, however, was the one that yanked her sister’s elbow back. “Lay the fuck off. He’s here. He’s going to sing. You don’t have to manhandle him.”

Carmen rolled her eyes. “No matter how edible he looks, I swear on the moon to protect him—and not bite him—well, that is, unless, he asks nicely.” Carmen pouted then laughed. Her pinkie finger hooked itself through Stiles’s outer belt loop. Carmen was so pretty, and she was putting on such a brave face.

“Stiles, stop encouraging her,” Lydia snapped.

“What?” Stiles tried to appear indignant.

“Let’s go inside,” Carmen said, and then with the betas trailing, she more or less dragged him into the club.

\- - -

Carmen led them in through the back and up a flight of stairs. He could hear someone plucking a guitar. Instruments and hair products were strewn across vinyl chairs in the hallway. As they came into the back lounge, all four heads snapped his direction. Weston had a cigarette flipping between two fingers. “Oh, look, it’s our little gamma-friend.”

“Uh, hi.” Stiles waved.

“Oomph. He’s as succulent-smelling as ever,” Weston whined. “Why don’t we break our agreement and all have him? It’ll be fun.”

Carmen threw a drumstick at Weston (because she was secretly Stiles’s awesome defender). “He’s going to sing ‘Once Over’ with me because he’s got a voice like an angel, and yours is like a pigeon that somebody stepped on.”

“Liar.” Weston was frowning at Stiles’s kiss-stained cheek. “And you marked him. Bad manners, Carmen.”

“Oh, does that bother you?” Then before Stiles really knew what was happening, Carmen had his wrist twisted around, and um, yeah, was licking him—right over his pulse point, which was a crazy erogenous zone for Stiles so there might have been a noise, a squeak? Maybe even a slight moan?

The growl chorus came from both sides this time. Weston was looking huber pissed.

“Stop screwing with my friend!” Lydia snapped. “Do you have to mess with everything in my life? And Stiles, you could at least _pretend_ to think with your brain.”

Stiles resented that. Carmen was staring at her sister in a way that was a little too competitive for Stiles’s tastes—especially given that Carmen was an alpha werewolf. An intervention was due. “Um, shouldn't we practice? I think I need practice. Someone said something about a scout being here tonight? Or maybe you guys just don’t want me to horribly embarrass you? Like, I think I know all the words—but there’s such a thing as stage fright and being tongue-tied and ruining everything?”

Weston was still staring at Carmen. “We don’t need him. I can sing it.”

“I’d rather sing it with him. In fact, we’re going to practice. _Now_ ,” she said, and then she escorted Stiles back down the hall. Naturally, Scott, Lydia—a very confused Danny—and the rest of the betas followed. They were standing at the entrance to the main club when Carmen turned on them. “You all go and get drinks. If anyone gives you trouble about being underage, tell them that you’re sound crew for the band. Also, take this.” She tossed a small vial at Jackson. Stiles would use up all his guesses to bet that there was Delphinium extract in that.

“Um, we’re not leaving him alone with you,” Erica said, wearing her “duh” face.

“Scott can stay. We’ll be fine. We’re just practicing lines,” Stiles insisted.

When none of them moved, he repeated, “ _Go_.”

Jackson started tip-toeing back toward the door. He was looking pretty excited about the little vial in his hand. Lydia huffed, but then she said, “whatever,” and headed out to the club. The rest followed. Then it was Carmen, Stiles, and Scott.

“I’m sorry about Nick,” Stiles said. “It must be hard to sing without him.”

Carmen stilled, before lowering her sheet and holding up a finger. She walked over to a radio by the door and flipped it on, purposely upping the static so that Scott was wincing. Then, she upped the power on the window sill fan, before finally coming back over to sit by Stiles and Scott. “You were at his brother’s house the other night. I smelled you. And you.” She glared at Scott.

Stiles started to explain, "I live down the street. His door was open and—”

“Don’t lie to me, Stiles. I’m really sick of people lying to me.”

“So, um, maybe I was investigating Nick’s murder? I found out his brother lived three houses down so I went to go interview him.”

Now Carmen was frowning. “You’re not lying. Go on.”

“He was already dying. I think he was shot in the chest.”

She nodded. “The police said it was a bullet—not a knife or claw, but your pack’s smell was all over the place.” 

“—they were only there because of me,” Stiles cut her off before Scott could say anything. 

“Who attacked you, Stiles?” Carmen’s expression was dark. “Yes, I smelled it. It was Peter, wasn't’t it? Peter Hale. He came after you.”

“I don’t think Peter was the one who attacked Quentin. He got there… later.”

Crumpling paper into a ball, Carmen said, “But you don’t know for certain.”

“Um, no.” Stiles agreed. “But there was one other thing, Quentin tried to tell me something before he—”

But Carmen had frozen, covering Stiles mouth with her hand. Finally, she leaned and said, “Whisper in my ear.”

Both she and Scott were looking at the door. Stiles leaned in and whispered, “He said Laura.”

When Carmen pulled away from him, her face was tight, and she was nodding. “Don’t repeat that to anyone else. _No one_ , okay?”

“Some people already know…” Stiles gulped.

“Like Peter Hale?”

Both he and Scott cringed.

“So it looks like I’m going to be staying in town for an even shorter span than usual,” Carmen muttered, but she looked less mad and more sad.

“Who do you think is behind, you know, what happened to Nick and Quentin?”

“It doesn't matter right now,” Carmen said. “I can’t focus on it.” Which was crazy talk—because she looked like she was breaking into pieces even as she said the words.

“Well, we can help—” Stiles started.

But Carmen cut him off. “No.” She leaned out and squeezed his hand. “But thank you. I appreciate it. We should practice.” She was uncrumpling her lyrics sheet when her head jerked to the door again and she was sniffing loudly.

“What? Who?” Scott asked, sniffing too.

Carmen poked Stiles in the arm. “Guess who just showed up?”

Stiles shrugged. 

“Derek.” Scott was eyeing Stiles with apprehension.

Stiles looked down at his page. “Because his pack is here.” 

Carmen rolled her eyes. “I don’t even want to know why you’re lying to _yourself_. In the meantime, let’s sing, eh? Just one thing—” She pulled out a second Delphinium vial and dumped some straight into a clear bottle in her purse. She took a swig. Then she offered it to Scott and Stiles.

“Uh, no thanks,” Scott waved it off.

Stiles was about to say no, too, when Carmen said, “It eases the stage fright.”

Not to mention the Derek-fright. When he thought about it, a little Delphinium sounded like a super duper idea. Stiles took the bottle from her. He took a sip, then a gulp, letting the spice swirl in the back of his mouth before swallowing. The liquid burned the whole way down.

\- - -

An hour later, Carmen declared them “fantastic.” Stiles… Well, Stiles was feeling pretty fantastic. So fantastic that he used Scott’s shoulder as a pillow all the way back to the dressing rooms, where the band was putting the finishing touches on their clothing and instruments. Given the way that the bass player and drummer were wrapped up in each other—they were definitely a couple. Probably even mates, Stiles thought. Piano girl was cute, like Lydia had said. Her name was Emily, and she was only a year older then Stiles. Unfortunately, she was really, really quiet—but not in a brooding, dark way. She was just quiet and at peace. The whole time Stiles was asking her questions she was gazing at him with obvious, compassionate patience. Like a Buddha wolf. Stiles gave up and went to bother Weston. Weston was trying to get Carmen to sing with him instead of Stiles, but Carmen wasn't having it. “No. It’s too soon. With Stiles, it’s okay. Not with you.”

“He smells like sex, and that’s more okay than singing with an old friend?”

Carmen was glaring at Weston. “You know _why_ , now stop pushing it.”

“Maybe we could all sing it together,” Stiles offered, because he was feeling pretty awesome, but people fighting was not awesome.

“Wouldn't work,” Carmen said, rolling her eyes, but she was grinning affectionately at Stiles.

Weston was rubbing his chest. Stiles wondered if it was because he had a nipple piercing that was bothering him. Lydia had mentioned them, but then Stiles might have been staring too much. “See something you like?” Weston asked.

Weston was good-looking. He had shoulder-length blond hair that did not look remotely feminine and well, his face was somewhat classically handsome with a straight nose and a strong jaw. He still wasn't as hot as Derek.

“I think Stiles has had a bit much to drink,” Scott said, glaring at Carmen.

“Stiles should sing 'Wrecker' with me,” Weston said, sitting upright.

“That’s not a duet.” Carmen shook her head.

“A little harmony wouldn't go awry.” Weston shrugged, and then he patted the spot next to him. Neither Carmen nor Scott looked happy when Stiles plopped right down next to Weston, but whatever, Stiles took the sheet that Weston gave him, and just sort of sang along—albeit a bit higher than Weston was singing. It was a really good song. Apparently Stiles did well with it, because at the end, Weston was smiling at him. “Maybe we should keep you.” 

“I’m a treasure,” Stiles agreed, because he was _so not sober_.

Weston reached up to brush Stiles’s cheek. It took Stiles a minute to realize he was rubbing off the lipstick mark that Carmen had left earlier.

“Wolves are weird about marking, aren't they?”

Weston nodded. “It means more than you know.” Then he’d leaned into Stiles’s ear and whispered, “Be careful.”

It made Stiles shiver, but before Stiles could ask Weston _why_ , Weston was on his feet calling the band to order. It was time. They were up.

\- - -

There were a lot of people. They were mostly dressed in dark clothing. A lot of them had tattoos but some people were weirdos looking clean-cut in polos or button downs. The one thing they all had in common was that they were staring at Stiles with expectation.

“Stiles. _Stiles._ ” Carmen was saying his name.

Stiles nodded and walked up to the front. The lyrics weren't all that complicated, but he had the two tricky lines written on his hands. He could do this. His gamma-ness made him infallible. His vocal cords might as well be motherfucking flutes. He just needed to open his mouth. Yeah, that. Stiles swallowed. On his other side, Carmen slid a hand around his waist. She was saying something to the crowd. Stiles smiled in away that he hoped didn't look overly constipated. Then um, the music started and well, Carmen was singing. She poked him in the hip—so that he singing too—and behind them the drums were beating. Little Emily was ripping up the piano. The words, the ones that had made him tear back up in Deaton’s clinic, were now sliding from his lips and Carmen was singing-smiling-but-also—oh god—by the end, she was also crying, but she must have seen his expression, because she shook her head, laughing even as she sang her fucking heart out, and well, Stiles kind of wanted to hug her.

Which, when the song ended, he did. Carmen was kind of giggling into his neck, but then the audience was cheering—like, loudly and stuff. Stiles peeked. They looked approving. People were whistling and shaking their hands above their heads and generally screaming and clapping. His face went hot. Stiles wasn’t sure what to do—was he supposed to bow? Nah, that wouldn't be rockerish.

Not that the hug was rockerish…But then Weston grabbed his elbow, yanking him away from Carmen, and well, then there was the next song. Stiles was finding this second performance comparatively easier—in part, because he just had to sing the words that Weston sang, and Weston had a really nice deep voice, so when combined with Stiles’s tenor—it had this dark, hallowed effect. Stiles relaxed enough to look out on the crowd, and that was, of course, when he saw Lydia and Jackson and Danny and—

 _Fuck_. Derek.

To Stiles’s credit, he didn't botch his line, but he did jerk his gaze away, looking anywhere but the back left corner of the bar. Derek’s eyes had been red. They’d looked angry. Derek didn't have a right to be angry. Stiles was the one who had a right to be raging pissed. Yeah, that was seriously it, so he focused on the “channeling his anger” thing, and somehow (thank the fuck) that got him to the end of the song. After that, Weston had another solo, so Carmen took him to the back where Scott was waiting to give Stiles a serious high five.

Because Stiles was magical and talented and awesome.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Scott was grumbling, and Stiles wondered how much of that he had said aloud.

“Okay, I’m going to head back,” Carmen said. “But feel free to shower off my sister’s face paint, and change into something more comfortable.” She ended up handing him a band t-shirt with a pretty nifty logo on it.

“Awesome,” Stiles said. “And one for Scott too?” Because Scott was clearly jealous.

Carmen grabbed out a second one for Scott, but then she took Stiles aside, and even though both of them knew Scott was in listening range, she leaned in and whispered in Stiles’s ear. “If you decide you need a mate, just ask me. Don’t feel like because of my…” She closed her eyes. “Just, it would be okay. You’d be safe, Stiles. So, if you need me, just ask.”

Stiles was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open, and when he looked over Carmen’s shoulder, Scott was rubbing the back of his neck and staring fixedly at the ceiling.

“Do not say anything now,” Carmen said with a laugh. “Take a shower. We’ll talk later.” Then she left, and both Scott and Stiles watched her perfect ass strut out of the room.

“I’m going to take a shower,” Stiles said, wide-eyed and with a voice an octave too high.

Scott nodded vigorously. “Um, I’ll be right here?”

\- - -

Stiles was stripped and in the hot water, scrubbing the nearly endless layers of eye crap off his face as he considered what Carmen had offered. Did she mean sex, too? Because Stiles wouldn't say no. But her mate had just died, so like, probably not. Then again, Stiles smelled delicious. Everyone said so. Lydia would be so pissed. Derek would be…

Stiles was sorting through his hurt-angry-feelings when the shower curtain was suddenly flung open. Standing there, glaring at Stiles like he wanted to murder him, was Derek.

Before Stiles could ask a very serious _what-the-fuck_ , Derek had stepped into the shower—sending water everywhere. “I am so fucking sick of you smelling like everyone but me.” With the water soaking between them, Derek grabbed Stiles by the jaw and kissed him.


	8. Chapter 8

The kiss was hard, all teeth and tug, but instead of being remotely logical and resisting, Stiles’s brain fizzy-melted like an Alka-Seltzer in the hot bath water. Also there was Derek’s taste: juniper from the gin and maybe a pop of floral mint amid the salt. Not to mention the sounds (mostly one long pissed off growl) but with the way Derek was shaking, they sounded so _desperate_. Like it couldn't be helped. Like Derek had to have Stiles or he would die.

Derek was licking and sucking, and his hands weren't staying still but sliding down Stiles’s shoulders, pinning him by his biceps to the shower tiles before thumbing at his hips. And Oh God, all Stiles had planned on doing was showering. On looking normal again. On feeling better. But there was feeling _better_ , and there was—

Trying to regain mental control when Derek Hale was rolling his sodden hips rhythmically against yours was no easy task. “You still smell—fuck—like—” Derek breathed, burying his face in Stiles’s neck, before breaking away with a jerk.

“No. No. No,” Stiles weakly protested. “You can’t keep doing this.” And he tried to pull Derek back to him.

But Derek smacked his arm away, instead snatching up a shampoo bottle and squeezing a dollop into his hand.

Which was different. “What are you doing?”

Derek shook his head irritably—sending water flying—and then more or less attacked Stiles’s hair with the shampoo. Uh, it felt nice. Derek was massaging methodically—nay, meticulously—like he was going to root out every last nasty non-Derek werewolf pheromone that had dared to touchdown on Stiles, but Stiles had a point to make.

“You can’t come after me only when other people do.” A dollop of shampoo foam began to roll down his face. He had to squeeze his eyes shut. 

“Lean forward to rinse,” Derek said.

“You said you didn't want me.”

Stiles couldn't see between the soap and the water, but there was mistaking the disbelieving hitch in Derek’s throat. “I didn't say that.”

“Exhibit one: Sunday’s text message.” Stiles’s feeling were definitely still indignant and possibly hurt over that.

“Oh, Stiles...” Derek’s hand slid down his side. A finger brushed at the tip of Stiles’s dick.

“Oh-Stiles, what?” Stiles’s sense of balance went a little funny.

Derek leaned forward to his ear. “Wanting you has never been the problem.” 

Stiles was still trying to clear the water out of his eyes when Derek stole his hand brought it down and pressed it against the prominent and very wet bulge in his own jeans. Um, yeah, that was pretty fucking hot. Stiles was all ready to forgive him when Derek sniffed again, made a pissed-off face, and picked up another bottle, squirting out some banana-smelling body wash. “I’m going to smell like a fucking monkey,” Stiles complained, but then he shut up because Derek was paying special, soapy attention to Stiles’s nipple.

“I shouldn't be doing this,” Derek said, and well, then he kissed Stiles again. 

“Ah! No! Enough with the mixed signals. _I_ was the one in the emo band tonight—and also, please take this off.” Stiles tried yanking on Derek’s shirt—which he finally succeeded when Derek shrugged it off over his head. It made a heavy slop in the puddle on the tiles. 

Stiles went after Derek’s jeans, but his hands were slippery, and Derek wasn't making it an easier by the way he was sucking on Stiles’s neck—or yeah, also grabbing his ass. Finally, though, the button was open, the zipper was down, and with the water weight the jeans easily succumbed to gravity (stepping out of them was a little more difficult). But then Derek ditched his boxers and fuck, he pressed Stiles up against the tiles and their dicks were touching and holy hell—there was no part of the man that wasn't muscle. Stiles wasn't exactly shy, but nor had he ever done this before. His initial kiss with Derek had not started with Stiles being butt naked, and even if Derek had the same, basic machinery—the man wasn't even fully human. He was fucking _superhuman_. No matter that Stiles was now a gamma and smelled like milk and honey and werewolf sex pheromones, he was also boyish and talked too much—and definitely fucking _thought_ too much—

“Shut up,” Derek said, before licking along Stiles’s shoulder blade.

“Wasn’ttalkin’.”

Derek grabbed his jaw and looked him in the eyes. “You were nervous.”

“Correction: nervous-excited.” But Stiles’s voice sounded stupid-shaky.

“I don’t want you to be afraid of me,” Derek said, and then he dropped. To his knees. Nosing his way right up against Stiles’s dick, Derek breathed, long and tickly and also so crazy erotic that Stiles collapsed back against the wall for support.

Derek ran his nose up and down the shaft for at least a minute, sniffing before at last exhaling in satisfaction at the end. Stiles was nervous—watching was sexy but almost too intimate, but then Derek leaned back to suck in the tip—and Stiles wasn't worried about anything. A keening _Derek-Derek-ohmyfuckinghell-Derek_ , more or less exploded from Stiles’s lips and then the words just completely dissembled when Stiles just gave into frantic moaning.

Derek may have rolled his eyes or even shook his head slightly from side-to-side but Stiles wasn't really capable of paying attention. The wet suction was so totally perfect. At one point, Stiles put his hand up, trying to keep the shower water out of Derek’s eyes, but maybe it didn't matter that much in the end, because Stiles came in under two minutes. All the while he was having desperate thoughts about Derek needing to bite him.

He needed Derek, but when Derek stood up, it wasn't to bite him. It was to flip him around. Derek's words came out fast. “Can I? I won’t go inside, just between your cheeks and—”

“You can do whatever you want to me. Anything,” Stiles said.

Derek let out a startled growl but then there was the sound of a bottle opening followed by the tingling cold of conditioner being rubbed between his cheeks and then Derek was hard behind him, thrusting up against him, and fuck—it was not like Stiles was getting off on this. He’d just come himself, but he liked that Derek was using his body. He liked that Derek’s thighs were pounding against his hamstrings. He liked that Derek’s breath was hoarse in his ear. And he especially like when Derek’s angles went a little low. As he ground against Stiles’s hole, Stiles thought he would definitely like Derek to use him even more.

He felt it when Derek’s whole body hardened and instead of thrusting he just pressed himself as hard against Stiles as he could. There would be bruises tomorrow. Stiles told himself he’d check. 

One of Derek’s arms was clutched around his ribs, even as one held firmly onto Stiles’s hips. They were both breathing heavily. The water was still warm, and Stiles felt insanely good. And uh, yeah, when he looked down at his fingernails, they were lengthened—not crazy, long claws like an alpha’s—but enough that Stiles bet that if he scratched at all he’d leave a mark.

Stiles was pretty much ready to choose a favorite spot to sink his nail in when Derek jerked away with a growl and glared at the door.

Fucking Scott. 

“Um, hey,” Scott mumbled on the other side of the door. “Sorry to interrupt, and to be clear, I heard _nothing_ , because all of the emotional scarring caused me to go deaf five minutes ago, but I wanted to let you guys know they just ended the last song, so the whole band of _alphas_ is going to be coming in here any minute, and I thought you guys might want to…”

Derek had the water off and was out of the shower in the next second. He sniffed the band shirt with taste, but said, “It’s dry,” and chucked it at Stiles.

“But all of your clothes are wet.” Stiles started drying himself off with a towel like a normal person.

Derek opened the door wide enough to poke his head through. “Scott, give me your shirt.”

“Hey,” Scott complained.

“Now.”

When Derek closed the door, he had the band shirt in his eyes. He was frowning at it.

“It’ll be adorbs. We’ll match,” Stiles drawled.

Derek looked at him like he was completely missing the point, and then he kissed him again. Things were starting to get good again when from the other side of the door, Scott snapped. “Do you not hear the people coming up the steps?”

Wincing, Derek was shrugging on wet jeans in the next instant, which had to be really, nasty cold. Derek called at the door again. “Scott, if anyone asks, Stiles is at your place.”

“Except he’s not,” Scott grumbled. “Stiles, you’re okay with this, right?”

Stiles took another look at Derek and the way the wet clothes were showing at least twenty muscles that Stiles had only ever seen on a diagram. “You could say that…”

“Got it!” Scott cut him off. “Don’t—say—more.”

Stiles was still trying to tie his shoes when Derek pushed the window open, leaned out to sniff, and then grabbed Stiles by the hips to push him up. Outside the window, it was a twelve foot drop to the parking lot. “I’m going to break something,” Stiles worried aloud.

“You’ll heal,” Derek said, and then he pushed Stiles through.

Stiles landed on grass, but it yeah, um, it still freaking hurt. Well, for a second, because as he stood and shook out his legs, there was a weird tingly feeling before the pain began to fade. Sort of badass. Stiles could work with that. But then Derek was there, slipping his hand into Stiles’s, and navigating him through the parking lot.

\- - -

Derek put up the roof on the convertible and then cranked up the heat so his jeans would start to dry, but Stiles knew he had to be uncomfortable. Soggy clothes weren't fun. “It’s a long way back, at least an hour,” Stiles pointed out as they picked up speed on the highway.

Derek nodded, keeping his gaze focused on the road but his free hand reached over to squeeze Stiles’s thigh.

“Um, so I was thinking we should stop somewhere to eh, you know?”

Derek rolled his eyes. “I’m not fucking you in a car.”

Stiles pouted. “It’s a pretty nice car.”

Derek smirked. “Maybe so but not a car.”

But then coming up on the left, Stiles saw a road sign for a hotel. Seven miles. “We should stop there.”

“Stiles…” Derek began and _oh no, no, no_ , Stiles could hear the alcohol wearing off and the caution creeping in.

“—no. We have unfinished business.”

But Derek was shaking his head. “I should take you home.”

“No, you shouldn't. You can’t pull this yo-yo crap. You want me. I want you. I am so damn sick of being teased. Seriously.”

Derek jaw was set and he was glaring at the road. “I’m not trying to— Seriously, Stiles, just think about what you’re saying—you’re not even a legal adult—and I’m going to take you to some crap motel for your first time?”

Actually, Stiles thought the dirtiness was kinky—but he didn't say that, because he had a point to make. Or wait— _two_ points. “Point one—two weeks and three days until my official magical transformation into an adult. Scott’s birthday is this Sunday, actually. We’re really close in age. Point two—stop trying to turn yourself into the bad guy here. Red eyes, a leather jacket, and a tattoo on your back do not Satan-make. I’m not some little girl in a white dress who’s going to cry the first time you touch her ‘special parts.’ I’m a fucking seventeen-year-old male who wanks at least twice on a normal day—six times on a sick day. I look at you, and I want to put my hands down your pants. I want to taste you in mouth. In the shower I was thinking about how your dick would feel sliding up into me, so if you think I don’t want this, you’re flat out making shit up.”

Derek’s jaw worked for a long moment, but then he shook his head. “Sex… changes things. It changes people. You’re a gamma, Stiles. That means life. And you haven’t even had a chance to live yet. You don’t deserve to be tied to me.”

Oh, crap and here it was all laid out: Kate Argent and being a teenage orphan and living in a house-sized coffin instead of getting a proper apartment in town. Stiles thought about it. He could talk to Derek about his issues. He could reassure him, but really, it was just so stupid. Derek was being a total moron. There was only one solution to this. Stiles started unbuttoning his jeans.

“What are you doing?” Derek asked, eyes wide.

“Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Stiles said with zero apology, and then he pulled himself out of his pants.

“ _Stiles_.”

“Derek,” Stiles replied back, but he’d already gotten at least two good pulls in, so it came out a bit breathy. Nevertheless, he kept his hand going in his usual rhythm.

“Stiles, stop.” Derek growled, but he didn't take his hands off the wheel. His gaze flicked back and forth from the road to Stiles working himself.

“Why? Is this _teasing_ you? How does that feel?”

“I’m fucking driving.”

“Yes, you are,” Stiles agreed. “But you’re watching me. You’re scenting me. Is it my smell? Do I smell like you? From before when you rubbed your cock off between my cheeks?”

Derek said his name again, but it was less of a growl and more of a whine this time. Stiles was both angry and pleased—but not remotely merciful. He was taking any fucking pity on Derek right now. He pushed his jeans and boxers down the rest of the way, so that they were past his knees. The car swerved slightly. “Do you want the whole highway to see?”

“Maybe.” He’d never really done this before, but he arched his hips so he could reach around and press between his cheeks into the ring of muscle…

The car jerked again, which—ow. His angle wasn't sturdy, and that was a sensitive area.

“Stiles, I am ten seconds from wolfing out. And then I’m going to—”

“You can pull over,” Stiles insisted. “You can take me to the woods, put me up against a tree, and—”

The breaks squealed as Derek pulled the car off the highway and into the hotel parking lot. “This is your fault. Stay put,” Derek said, and then he marched to the hotel office.

Yeah, Stiles didn't feel the least bit guilty.

\- - -

Like most cheap motels, it looked like something you’d mostly see in a cop movie: drab brown bedspread (to hide the stains), kitschy flower garden paintings off-angle, and then of course the industrial carpeting. A sink and mirror were visible in the back of the room. Stiles flopped right onto the first bed, kicking off his shoes while still lying down. Derek, however, was still standing with his back against the front door. Stiles sat up. “Your jeans are wet from our illicit showering. You should take them off.”

Derek rolled his eyes, but he did as Stiles suggested, stripping off not only his jeans but his shirt too. Yeah, Stiles had seen it all in the shower earlier, but now the perspective was different. Up close before, Derek had all been skin and texture, but sitting six feet away, Stiles could drink in the long torso, the way his ass curved into his thighs… 

Bare as the day he was born, Derek rolled onto the bed and pulled Stiles into him. Like this, Derek smelled… like forest and fire and Stiles nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder before slinging his top thigh over Derek’s. Derek didn't say anything, which, um, was normal, but what was less normal was that Stiles didn't speak either. Instead he sought about lightly fingering all of the tiny rippling muscles in Derek’s stomach. Derek’s belly button was straight-up cavernous. Stiles was finding out just how deep, when his naval spelunking ended abruptly as Derek slapped his hand away. So, instead, Stiles pushed up and explored Derek’s lower regions.

Yeah, Derek’s was bigger than his. Not painfully Coke-can sized or as long as a ladder or anything, but broad and thick, yet still not so big that Stiles didn't think they wouldn't fit together.

Stiles must have been staring because Derek asked, “Satisfied?” He leaned back with the ease of someone who'd never even heard of the term "body issues."

"Oh, you're not just putting up with it. You _like_ it. This is a wolf thing."

"When you touch me, it’s marking. Your eyes brighten." A smile was tugging at Derek's mouth.

Stiles loved it when he made Derek smile. Probably a little more than was safe. "And my inner-third-tier werewolf, it only seems to show when someone's doing something scandalous with me. What's up with that? It should show up other times, too, right? But oh God—that's it, isn't it? For you and Scott it's like _anger_. You're like warriors. But for me it's sex. My inner wolf is a total slut."

Derek was rubbing his eyes. "Um, Stiles."

"Wait—see." He leaned up to kiss Derek.

The kisses were familiar to Stiles now. Wet. Lots of tongue. When he sucked on Derek's bottom lip, Derek would nip back in a way that was almost sweet. But, um, yeah, Stiles didn't exactly want sweet. He was on top, so it made it easier to push harder, to use more teeth and to scratch his nails down Derek's arms. It was only when Derek hissed that Stiles realized his nails had lengthened, and without meaning to, cut Derek. And um, maybe he should have asked first, but at the first sight of the red lines, Stiles went right for them, leaning to lap at the strata.

With Peter (ew, yuck Peter) the taste had been euphoric, dizzying, but with Derek—and the way he already wanted him—it was insane. He was moaning and licking and probably acting fucking rabid, but he needed more. He needed more of Derek. He needed to be closer. He used his nail, now even longer to cut a spot even closer to Derek's neck, and then he bit down and sucked.

"Ow. You little fucking vampire."

"Wrong—" Stiles panted, pulling back. "Werewolf with a blood fetish. Get your kinks straight." Then he went right back to the task, sort of humming, because shit, he was lightheaded—but he had a mission. A task: give Derek the most epic hickie ever. Afterwards, sex.

"Stiles, draining me is not on the table," Derek said, and he pushed Stiles back.

Stiles's brain was a little crazy from the taste, but not enough that he couldn't properly argue. "What'd you say to me before—right before you engaged in defenestrating me from the bathroom—you said 'you'll heal'." Then Stiles tried to lick Derek again.

But Derek had a hand dead center in Stiles's chest. " _Defenestrating_ , really?"

"Right now I'm focused on _divesting_ ," Stiles said as he yanked his shirt up over his head.

Derek looked ready to help, that was, until Stiles's phone buzzed.

"Ignore that," Stiles snapped, but Derek was already reaching for it, and because alphas had serious misunderstandings about boundary issues, Derek read the message before Stiles could stop him.

"Congratulations," Derek said, not looking all that congratulatory, before handing Stiles his phone.

Stiles read the message. It was from Carmen. A major record company was interested, but the deal breaker was Stiles. They wanted Stiles.

"Which is all very nice and such, but right now, I have an alpha werewolf to seduce.”

“Stiles.” Derek wasn't looking at him.

“Come here,” Stiles said, and he grabbed Derek’s chin, and pulled it so that they were looking at one another.

Derek’s eyes were flickering, not staying red or blue. With the swirling color, they looked almost purple. Purple was bad.

“Why won’t you let yourself be happy?” 

Derek forced himself loose from Stiles's grip. He looked away. “Pleasure isn't happiness. If I just—if I did what I wanted to right now. If I fucked you then bit you—it would be good for me. I would have you, and you would be my mate, and all of your choices would be screwed up with mine, and it wouldn't be something you could get out of. I’d have ruined the rest of your life.”

“The gamma thing is not your fault.”

But Derek was actually speaking in paragraphs. “And the last time I let myself have exactly what I wanted—for a fuck, Stiles—for three shitty blow jobs and a fuck, my family _died_ and my uncle went psychotic and everything that actually made me happy in the real sense was wiped away and—” Derek was shaking, and his eyes weren't swirling changing color any more. The corneas were pink, and the irises were pale, pale blue. 

“Just come here,” Stiles said. “Come here and stay here. We’ll figure this out.” 

Derek pulled him close, tight enough that it hurt. “Jesus, this is fucking pathetic.”

“No,” Stiles said, breathing in Derek’s skin and hating how he wanted more, even right now. Because—nope. This was what Derek needed. All they needed to do was figure this out, and it would be okay. They could be together. It would be okay.

\- - -

When Stiles woke up the next morning, Derek was gone. Stiles looked out the window, wondering if he was sitting in his car out in the parking lot. His car wasn't there. Well, that was okay, he could have gone out to get breakfast. But then Stiles saw the note.

_Stiles._  
I’m sorry. But I can’t. Don’t worry. I’ll stay away. If you have to, choose someone else.  
–Derek 

Stiles crumpled the paper into a fist and then he threw it across the room. He stared at it for a long minute, and then he turned and buried himself into the pillows. They still smelled like Derek. _He_ still smelled like Derek. In the shower, he jacked up the hot water and scrubbed himself near raw. When he was done, he picked up his phone and texted Carmen.

_Can you come and get me?_  
I’m kind of stuck.  
Also, yes.  
Yes. Yes. Yes.  
I don’t need to think about it anymore. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahem, if you see typos and they drive you nuts, please have no qualms about telling me. *hugs*

When Stiles opened the door, the rush of air was icy and cruel and made his testicles want to curl into his intestines. Carmen, however, was wearing a tank top with the bottom half cut off, so that her incredibly toned stomach was visible. With all the little bumps, it almost looked like you could play it, like her abs were a keyboard. If Carmen noticed his staring, she didn’t comment on it. Instead she sniffed the air before groaning, “Ugh. The lingering reek of blue balls. What’d he do?”

Stiles shrugged. “Left.”

Carmen’s expression went flat. “He say _why_?”

“Something about me deserving better and sex ruins everything and this is all his fault.”

Carmen walked over to the window, rolling her eyes. “The last part is true. The second is false. The first part is your decision.” Stiles really, really liked Carmen. She said things in the best way. Also, as she bent over, she looked a _mmmm_ azing. “At least he isn’t stupid enough to leave you alone. You have a babysitter in the parking lot.”

“Say what?” Stiles walked over to push the curtain open beside her.

Sure enough, sitting out in the back row of the parking lot, was Boyd. He had his arms crossed, and he was glaring at Carmen with a look of bored, patient loathing. The glance he gave Stiles was more irritated.

“Hi, Boyd.” Carmen waved through the window, and then while Stiles was waiting for Boyd’s reaction (there wasn’t one), Carmen leaned down to kiss right beneath his jaw, except that there was a little nip at the end. It stung, but like, in good ways. Still, Stiles was suddenly completely, horribly confused. Carmen was watching his expression as she drew the curtain and stepped back from the window. “We need to talk alone, but not with him listening. Not with _anyone_ listening.” Her eyes went not just to the window—but forwards, backwards, up and down. Like the walls had ears.

“Okay.” Stiles wasn't sure why he trusted Carmen as much as he did. Maybe it was because when they were alone she acted like his gamma-ness was the least of her problems, and being the least of anyone’s problems, that was something of a relief.

\- - -

Stiles didn't know what it was about the Martin women and being terrifying drivers, but he should have had a clue when Carmen took the motorcycle into the goddamn woods. Granted, the bike wasn't a Harley, it looked sportier, and there was a certain mismatched-exposed-wires look to the parts that probably meant there’d been some custom-work done. Still, Carmen treated the vehicle like it was a fucking mountain bike. But um, yeah, definitely not a mountain bike. At least five times, Stiles thought they were going to plummet to their deaths—or smash into a redwood—or fall into whirling flip down the mountain until they flattened into people-cakes. Only they didn't, because as they roared through the forest, Carmen’s thighs went rigid and her nails lengthened. She was using her wolf to accurately judge the jumps and turns. And taking the trails meant that no car could follow them. 

Which was the point, obviously. 

At a closed-in valley, Carmen skidded the bike to a stop. Despite the cold, there was the crystalline trickle of a mountain spring and the treetop singing of sparrows. The only other sound was the wind shivering through the trees.

“Let’s sit,” Carmen said, kicking her leg over the seat and striding over to a rock. Stiles was a little stiff and rigid from straddling the bike (and holding on for dear life) but he waddled over and plopped down next to her. Her back was straight, her shoulders back, and her neck was craning from side to side. “We’re alone. So—I need to tell you what I get out of this. What I want out of this. And I need to know what you want. First off, I like you. Stiles, I think you’re great.”

Stiles nodded eagerly. “I like you too.”

Carmen smiled, took a breath, and looked away, and um, fuck. It was like a layer of varnish was stripped off her eyes. What lay beneath was worn and nicked and not so shiny. Stiles didn't think she was any less beautiful, though. Carmen leaned against him as she said, “Stiles, I need to get out the band, but I can’t. It’s not like I get strength from the other alphas, but together, we’re powerful. A lone alpha is a disaster, especially with—” She cut herself off. “If you bond with me, we’ll be safe. We could even do music together. We wouldn't even need the band for that.”

“But…” Because Stiles might be a lot of things (hyperactive, overly-inquisitive, a total smartass), but stupid wasn't one of them, and there was definitely a gigantic “but” being painted in between the lines.

“But I can’t fall in love with you. Not like a normal mate would. I’m still in love with Nick. I think I might be forever.”

“I get that.” And really, Stiles thought it was romantic if also crushingly tragic all at the same time.

But then, without any real reason, Carmen groaned into her hand. “I’m telling you all this, but why I am telling you all of this? What am I doing?”

Stiles paused before saying, “Discussing the problems of power and sex?”

“Well, yes, but Stiles, power aside, you deserve more than just sex. Your heart is just this huge, beautiful thing. Like how you worshiped my brat of a sister for all those years.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. It wasn't like his feelings for Lydia had been all that pure. Said feelings often involved lube and magazines and a pornographic imagination. “Is this all a roundabout way to tell me you don’t want to have sex with me?”

Carmen’s worried expression was gone in a flash. The look in its place was quite predatory. “Stiles, you are delectable, and when I say that, I don’t mean it in the cute, easily-dismissed way. I mean it in the way that no alpha can look at you and not imagine marking this.” She ran her finger down the side of his neck. Stiles shivered rather happily. “Oh, and the way you normally jabber like you can’t stop until you’re touched—that’s just—”

“ _Nice,_ ” Stiles blustered because her nose was brushing against the lobe of his ear and her breath was tickling his neck.

“And your smell. It’s like wolfnip or something. Just being in your presence makes any alpha wet or hard or leaking and—”

“Wolfnip? Leaking?” Stiles voice was breaking into a hundred crackly pieces.

“Just trust me. Fucking you will never be the issue.” But then—what? _Wait._ Carmen pulled away, and to make matters worse, she was frowning at him. “But I’m probably never going to make love to you, not in the way you deserve.” Right now Stiles was feeling so utterly turned-on and out of his mind that he was pretty sure he’d be down with anything. Carmen shook her head, a smirk on her face. “Also, I’m not blind—or without a nose. What’s the deal with Derek?”

Stiles scowled, because, well, talking about Derek—biggest mood killer on the planet because it made him sad. Stiles rubbed his hands together to keep them warm. “Derek growls a lot and keeps me at arm’s length.”

“But you and he have a…” Carmen’s finger tick-tocked back and forth.

Stiles’s shoulders slumped. “It’s not like we’re dating. We got drunk a week ago and made out and… _stuff_ on his couch. That’s how my, um, gamma-ness presented itself. Well, and when creepy Peter made his, um, move on me—Derek was wearing a cape one minute and then throwing a bucket of water on me in the next. Oh, and then yesterday, he sort of attacked—in a nice way—after the concert, but then on the way home he got dumb and emo and hurtful. It’s like werewolf PMS and _Ireallyreallyhateit_.”

Carmen’s chin was resting on her palm. “I see.”

“Do you?”

“I assume you asked him why he’s got his nuts in a twist.”

“I’m not eighteen for two weeks. He’s emotionally broken from his family being burnt alive. Also, I’m worried I annoy him.”

Carmen snorted. “Oh, I almost want to lick you both. Maybe I will.”

Stiles beamed at her.

Carmen rolled her eyes. “Get back on the bike. I haven’t finished being honest with you.”

\- - -

What Stiles didn't expect was Carmen to take them down a residential road. It was lined with brick houses with pastel shutters and flower boxes. It was so totally suburban and safe and clean-cut that Stiles found himself highly confused as to how Carmen could need to show him anything here. They had just made a right hand turn when he felt Carmen tense in front of him. Stiles had only just caught _“Lydia”_ from Carmen’s hissed diatribe, when sure enough Lydia Martin was parked on the street corner, leaning against her car and glaring at her sister for all she was worth.

“How did you find me here?” Carmen snapped jumping off the bike.

Lydia didn't so much as blink. “GPS. I tracked you on your phone. You've come here every day since you've been back.”

Carmen’s face paled. “Because you figured out my password.”

“The first name changed but the last four digits were the same,” Lydia said, looking a little too smug in Stiles’s opinion for how freaked out Carmen was.

“If you can track me—then—” Carmen’s nostrils flared. She was scanning the street.

“You two need to get inside now. Stiles, it might feel sting, but the ward won’t hold you yet. You haven’t been bitten. We'll burn your hairs later, but for now, _go_.”

Her voice was pure alpha, with all of the accompanying scary push, and Stiles’s feet were moving before he could think about it. As he stepped over a crack in the drive, he felt it: the active mountain ash ward. It made him cold, like he stepping through a wall of ice water, but two steps past and he was already warming up. Lydia was following him, snapping out his name. “Stiles. _Stiles_ , don’t listen to her. You can’t trust her. She’s just _using_ you.”

Carmen pushed past her sister and without knocking or ringing the doorbell swung open the door and went inside. “Carmen,” an older woman exclaimed as they came in. She was dressed in black and looked even more tired than Carmen. “We weren't expecting you until later.”

“I meant to call, but…” Carmen pointed at Lydia. “You may have seen my sister around Beacon Hills, but I’m not sure you've been introduced. Lydia, this is Jill Goldson, Nick’s aunt. Jill this is…”

“The Sheriff’s son,” Jill said, frowning at Stiles. “Interesting.”

Lydia was looking from her sister to Jill with confusion. Obviously, she had no idea what was going on. Jill was giving Carmen a sidelong glance, as if waiting for a cue, whereas Carmen was tense with her gaze snapping from window to window. Stiles was about to muster up some (likely awkward) small talk when there was a snuffling sound and then an outright howl from down the hall. “I’ve got her,” Carmen said to Jill, and then she headed down the hall.

“You might as well follow,” Jill said, gesturing with an open hand.

Lydia didn't need much of an invitation. She charged after her sister, followed by Jill, and well, Stiles decided there was no reason not to follow. What he did not expect—what his brain could not have fathomed—was to see Carmen with her back pressed against a crib, holding a baby girl in her arms. “Um…?” He pointed at the obvious.

“This,” Carmen said, half-humming as she rocked the baby from side to side, “is Laura. Laura, this is Stiles and your Aunt Lydia.”

Lydia was looking from Carmen to Laura like she couldn't believe her eyes. Her bottom lip was trembling, and Stiles couldn't tell if she was about to cry or run out of the room. “You have a baby?” she finally asked.

“Yep. Congrats, little sis. You’re an aunt.”

Lydia walked forward and with her arms tight at her sides. “She’s gorgeous.”

Carmen smiled. “You see her hair?”

Lydia was biting her lip and nodding. “Strawberry blond. Can I hold her? Please.”

Carmen studied her sister for a minute before nodding. “Don’t be upset if she scents you. She’s too little to know better.”

“It’s okay. It’s okay,” Lydia said, as much to Laura as to Carmen. 

Laura nuzzled right against her, quite obviously sniffing Lydia with interest. Stiles bet that she could detect familiarity in Lydia’s scent.

“Why didn't you tell me?” Lydia asked even as she rocked Laura into her arms. “I don’t understand. This whole week. You've been home but you didn't say a word.”

Carmen sighed and began straightening the pillows.

“I’m going to make tea,” Jill said, smiling and heading for the door.

After the door closed, Carmen looked up and said, “Because she’s a born-werewolf.” 

“So? I know about weres. It wouldn't have mattered. You could have told me. You didn't tell mom or dad or any of us. The Goldsons knew though—obviously.” The resentment in Lydia’s voice hit Stiles in the gut—and it wasn't even directed at him.

Carmen didn't balk. “When you’re child is born a were, you can’t take any chances. Most babies are raised in large packs—and always by two alphas. With hunters and other… _threats_.” Carmen looked at the window again. “It’s not worth it to put your faith in anyone you can’t trust.”

Lydia flinched.

Carmen sighed. “Our parents, Lydia—they’re fine. They follow the checklist. They gave us ‘stuff,’ but they never loved us. I was the jerk-child. I screwed up as much as I could to try to gain their attention—but what happened? Nothing. They complained about it to their friends, but when I left, it didn't affect them. Not really. They didn't _care_ , and then look at you, you’re the complete opposite of me. You've done everything you can to meet their damn ideal. You shower regularly. You date the lacrosse team captain. You've gotten perfect grades. You even played down what a freaky little genius you are, so you didn't offend their suburban bubble. So I’ll ask you again, how do you think they would respond to something like this? To knowing that their daughter and granddaughter were werewolves?”

“They wouldn't believe you.” Lydia hugged Laura close, kissing her forehead.

“And more importantly, they wouldn't care. Keeping it a secret would be annoying to them. It’s not something they could tell their friends.”

Lydia didn't say anything for a minute, but finally she looked up and said, “I’m not that way.”

Carmen looked at her for a long moment before her face broke and she gave Lydia a small smile. “I’m starting to get that.”

It was freaking heartwarming—that was, until Laura shrieked and started to cry. She’d been straining with extended arms for a minute, but it took Stiles a minute of processing that she wasn’t reaching for her mother. No, baby Laura was sniffing the air in Stiles’s direction. She was looking straight at him, little nose snuffling like she’d caught a waft of bacon. “Oh, ugh, it’s that gamma-thing, isn’t it?” Lydia said, even as she held Laura out to Stiles.

Stiles opened his arms and Laura giggled in anticipation. And when he finally had her, Laura cuddled right up, relaxing with a soft sigh.

“That is so not fair. I became an aunt thirty seconds ago,” Lydia complained.

“Just wait until I sing to her,” Stiles cooed, rocking Laura in his arms.

Lydia looked like she wanted to hit him.

\- - -

It was an hour later when Stiles smacked his own forehead. “Crap. Um, school.” He yanked his phone out of his coat pocket.

Lydia pulled his hand away. “I already called in your absence, and Scott called your dad last night, so…” She shrugged and kept flipping through the album in her lap. It was full of Laura’s baby pictures. Lydia had insisted on seeing them once Laura went back down for her nap. Stiles was already checking his phone, though, which was a bad idea, because there were texts from Derek.

_Where are you?_

Followed by: _Boyd saw you leave with Carmen. Are you okay?_

Stiles thought about texting something mean, but he was surrounded by pictures of a cooing baby, and Lydia and Carmen kept smiling at each other, like really sweetly (especially for two incredibly pretty, badass girls), so the sisterly reconciliation and familial warmth was infecting him. Being mean felt bad. So instead he texted:

_I’m with Lydia and Carmen. Kind of a fantasy, right? And so, yeah, I’m fine. No one has bit me. Not that you care._

And okay, maybe Stiles wasn't feeling mean, per se, but the indignation was pulsing.

Derek’s answering text came immediately.

_I care._

Stiles gripped his phone and took long breaths while imagining punching Derek’s perfect face lots of times.

 _Leaving someone to wake up alone at a crappy hotel all by his lonesome is not a socially recognized sign of caring, dumbass_.

_Boyd was there._

Which was not the point. Stiles was considering throwing his phone across the room when Carmen swung up behind him, snatched it out of his hands, flipped through the messages, and then, powered it off. Stiles glared at her.

“You need to _talk_ to him. You and I—” She waved her finger back and forth between them. “—we’ve talked. You know what I want—what I can offer—what I can’t—and also _why_ , but you need to talk to Derek.”

“I don’t need to talk to him. As far as I’m concerned, we can do it right now.”

Glaring up from the photo album, Lydia snapped, “Or not.”

Carmen was smirking. “Just talk to him. If he’s still being stupid, you know where I am. Also, there’s a band meeting—not that they’re really meetings—but you know, we’re meeting up tonight to talk about the deal I texted you about. Obviously, I want you to come.”

Stiles exhaled and was nodding when Lydia interrupted, holding up the album. “Is that you?” she asked Carmen.

It was Carmen—and Weston, but the picture was older, like four or five years ago. Carmen looked almost Lydia’s age.

“Oh, yeah, I met Weston in college.” Carmen wrinkled her nose up at the picture. “Look at my hair. Why did I think that was remotely attractive?” Lydia frowned and leaned in to examine Carmen’s hair. Stiles didn't really see the difference. It looked an inch shorter or something. And besides, he was far more concerned with the way that Weston’s hand was clutched on Carmen’s hip.

“Weston was an alpha back then?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah.” Carmen rolled her eyes. “And just as big of a jackass.”

“He changed you?”

That got Carmen’s attention. She bit her lip and nodded. “I asked for it. I wanted to belong to something—a pack, and well, Weston has a pretty big pack. They’re out in the Oakland area. We were in a band together for a while—that’s how I met him, but then I met Nick.” Carmen’s expression went from wistful to crushed. Lydia reached out for her, rubbing her shoulder. 

“Weston seems a little jealous…” Stiles’s voice was hesitant.

Carmen snorted. “And what alpha isn’t? Weston has a mate. Trust me. He’s not whatever you’re imagining.”

“But you didn't tell him about Laura?” Stiles asked.

Carmen’s eyes flashed. “I tell no one about Laura. You need to understand that. Your knowing—it’s a big risk for me.”

“I understand,” Stiles promised.

\- - -

Carmen made him and Lydia take dermatologically-unsound scalding showers. Then there was strangely intimate marking stuff (to mask the Laura’s scent, so Carmen said) and then Stiles was dropped off on his door step. His dad wasn't going to be home for another hour, and Stiles did not feel like cooking, so he ordered Chinese. Extra spicy, because he was pretty sure his stomach could handle the pain now.

Then Stiles went straight to his computer. First off, he had a lot of emails. Some of it was dumb Facebook alerts and stuff like that, but the one that stuck out was a link to a YouTube video of his performance the night before. The audiovisuals weren't stellar (because it was clearly filmed on someone’s smart phone), but yeah, what was awesome was how good Stiles sounded. And um, how the hit counter was already over 4,000—in less than a day.

Because his vocal chords were motherfucking flutes, which was still weird. But like _amazing_. Stiles may have gotten a little stupid proud of himself and turned up the volume on his speakers, and yeah, there may have been hip swaying and elbow thrusting as the bass from really bad pop shook his room—and that would have been fine—it was _his_ private moment—except that Derek chose that moment to show up in his window.

They both stared at each other for an awkward moment until Stiles muttered, “I hate you.”

Derek’s expression didn't change. “Your voice may have improved, but your coordination…”

Stiles turned off the music. “What are you doing here?”

And of course, Derek couldn't just answer the question. He had to stride forward, grabbing Stiles and burying his face into his neck, sniffing and rubbing like it was his every right, but it wasn't Derek’s right.

Stiles shoved at him …which accomplished nothing because Derek was iron. Stupid alpha werewolves.

“I—” Derek paused, before releasing Stiles and striding over to the window. “I wanted to say—” A long ass pause followed.

“Just growl. It will feel more normal,” Stiles muttered, arms crossed. Derek glared at him. “You can talk to the wall as far as I’m concerned. I’m doing research, because I have issues other than you and your subject-never-gets-to-the-predicate problems when talking about your _feelings_. Also, since we've already been through this twice, and I like not getting my pride pulverized more than twice in a week, so I’m going to ignore you.” Stiles marched over to his computer and started googling all things Weston and Oakland and music-scene.

“Fine,” Derek said, “I just wanted to say that I don’t want you to choose Carmen—or anyone else. It pisses me off.”

“Already figured that out,” Stiles muttered. “You might have well have pissed on me the other night.” Also— _score_ —Weston’s last name was Caldwell. That helped considerably.

“But I don’t think I deserve you.”

“Which is total dumbassery,” Stiles said, sorting through some very strange blog articles about Weston’s grungy hair band days. Carmen was in a couple, and Weston was staring creepily at her. Still, not helpful. Ah, but wait—a forum link. With moon jokes. They were talking about the Oakland pack. Stiles was about to click it when his chair whipped around.

Derek was on his knees, pushing between Stiles’s legs. “Look at me. Please.”

“I’m looking.” Stiles swallowed.

“It’s just…” Stiles waited, trying hard not to melt under Derek’s stare. Derek took a breath and said, “I like your face.”

To his credit, Stiles didn’t cringe. “Um, thanks?”

“No.” Derek wiped his brow, gritting his teeth. “I mean,” and he leaned forward, totally cupping Stiles’s jaw. “No one—no one else’s face makes me happier. I know that most eyes are just eyes, but yours are bright and everywhere at once and... And your mouth.” Derek thumbed Stiles’s bottom lip. Your cheeks. They’re… When you smile, it’s just that it makes me want to, too.” Derek fucking smiled at him, like a real, melt-your-heart Derek smile.

Stiles had to close his eyes. He had to remind himself to breathe, because _fuuuuuuhhhhck_. He’d mentally told himself that he was going to help Carmen. He was going to be Carmen’s mate so they could be band-buds and have hot sex and totally make sure Laura was raised in lock-iron safety. And he would be safe too. No creepy Peter assaulting his junk. Everything was supposed to be clear now. Except for Derek. Derek had to keep confusing _everything_. “Why—God—why do you have to say things like that?”

“So that’s a no?” When Stiles finally looked, Derek’s eyes were red. He was looking down at the floor.

“It’s not a no—but Carmen needs me right now. You have no idea—and I can’t even tell you—and—” Stiles was pulling on his hair, but Derek was staring at him, looking both terrifying powerful and broken all at once and ugh—crap—this sucked and—

Stiles grabbed Derek and kissed him. Hands sprawled across Stiles’s hips, and his desk chair was rolling backwards, but Derek was clamoring forward with it, coasting at the corners of Stiles’s mouth—and Stiles wished that he could have a stronger will—because um, this did not count as _talking_ —and they needed to talk. They needed to—

 _ughcrapYES._ Derek’s teeth were grazing his neck, and teeth on his neck should not make his spine light up like that.

Then Derek’s hands were on his ass, yanking him forward at the same time that Derek collapsed backwards, and yet their mouths never disconnected. Derek kept kissing him. In fact, he grabbed Stiles even harder, almost hard enough to hurt. Bad. Bad. Bad. Because Stiles wanted more. He wanted—

 _I want you to bite me,_ Stiles thought.

The doorbell fucking rang.

“It’s Chinese,” Stiles said because Derek was staring.

“I seriously don’t give a shit about your dinner right now.” Derek went right for Stiles’s jeans button.

“No,” Stiles gasped, grabbing Derek’s hand. “I need to get the door. Then come back and we can, you know.”

The door bell rang again.

“I’ll be there—mph!” Stiles yelled, but the last word got a little muffled because Derek stuffed his tongue in his mouth.

“Bastard,” Stiles hissed.

“Not a bastard, an orphan,” Derek said in his dead serious way, yet he finally let Stiles go.

“And yes—oh my god—so many issues. Need to talk! But first, Chinese.” He stood up and headed for the door.

Derek rolled his eyes, but sat up to take over Stiles’s desk chair.

Stiles was half-way down the steps when he heard Derek call his name. “Just let me get the food, jackass.” He opened the door and yeah there was Will Kang from school. His bike was down by the mailbox, and he was seated on his butt, holding Chinese containers and totally smoking something rolled up in white paper that smelled like… “Um, you realize my dad’s the Sheriff?”

“I’m chilling where they’d least expect me.” Will grinned. “Besides your dad has more respect, man. He never takes forever. Also, I got this for free.” He waved the butt close enough to make Stiles’s eyes water, before handing over a crumpled receipt. “Sign here.”

“Whatever.” He signed, leaving Will an extra buck for waiting.

“You got a chick up there?” Will grinned, eyebrows bobbing.

“A dude.” Derek. Derek. Derek. And right now, Stiles didn’t care if the whole world knew.

“Whoa, man. You’re flexible. That’s like… really cool,” Will said seriously. “Oh, yeah, and I heard you were singing and stuff. You weren't bad, like you know, you were?”

“Thanks for the delivery, but I’m…”

“Busy. Yeah, yeah. See you dude.” Will took a final puff on the very homemade-looking weed. In fact, Stiles was just about to close the door when he saw the fibers sticking out.

“Wait, let me see that,” Stiles started to say—when a dark figure was suddenly behind Will on the porch.

“Thanks for burning our hairs,” Weston said and then he clonked Will on the back of the head. “Mountain ash barriers are so annoying.”

Stiles had only started to gasp, “Der—” when upstairs, he heard it.

A gun went off.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like very violent and can you say OMFG-DUB!CON. 
> 
> You've been warmed. Crap. I mean warned.
> 
> Epilogue/final chapter should be up tomorrow. :-)

Stiles was still reeling from the sound of the gunshot when Weston shoved him. The push sent him stumbling backwards into his own front hall so that the bag of Chinese cartons went flying and he landed hard on his butt. Before he could move, Weston was over him again, eyes blood red and claws sharp enough that when he grabbed Stiles by the back of collar, the fabric started to rip. Stiles flinched as the curved tips pricked over his top vertebrae.

“Go up the steps. Slowly.”

“Don’t hurt Will,” Stiles said, because whatever the hell was going on, poor Will Kang didn't deserve to get messed up in it ...even if he was a dumbass who smoked questionable crap from creepy strangers. Weston shoved Stiles toward the steps, before blurring toward the front door. When Stiles glanced back, Will was being tossed onto Stiles’s couch—which was good enough. Because Derek.

And the gunshot.

Stiles swayed for a second then bolted for the stairs—only to get knocked forward again not two steps from the top. “Did I not say _slowly_?” Weston growled, and his voice was sounding not all that human as he wrenched Stiles upright and dragged him toward his bedroom.

Weston had to shove Stiles’s dresser out of the way to get the door open. The room was in disarray. Feathers from a ripped pillow were still floating in the air. It made Stiles sneeze. Yet when he stepped into the room, his eyes went to his bed. Because stretched across Stiles’s comforter was Peter—with Derek belly-up in his arms. Peter’s face was creepily affectionate, almost like he was cuddling his nephew—except for the fact he had a gun pointed directly at Derek’s temple.

At first, Stiles didn't get it—Peter was still weak. Derek was stronger. But then his eyes focused and he saw the bullet wound on the left side of Derek’s chest—and there were slashes—no, claw marks, on his neck and his sides and across his thigh. Peter was bloody, too, but it was different. As Stiles watched, Peter’s wounds were healing, but no matter his red eyes and elongated canines, Derek’s wounds were not. The first shot must have had wolfsbane or silver or something awful that gave Peter the advantage.

“I actually didn't expect you to meet your end of the bargain,” Weston said, wrapping his claws around Stiles’s neck.

“Nick of time,” Peter said cheerfully. “Derek was reading internet _gossip_ when I pulled the trigger. Weren't you?” He jabbed the gun hard against Derek’s temple.

“Let Stiles go,” Derek growled, and crap-shit-crap—Derek sounded so weak. There were buckets of blood being gushed onto Stiles’s bed.

“Not going to happen. Stiles is too valuable,” Peter said.

Weston, meanwhile, walked over to Stiles’s computer. He laughed when he looked at the screen. “Apparently, the other packs think _hunters_ are attacking the Oakland pack. My pack. And poor _Weston_ , so heartbroken he’s taken to singer-songwriting again. Because you know, a month or so ago—my ‘mate’ disappeared. They’re talking about Carrie, of course—Carrie who always wanted me to stay home. Carrie who wanted me to look at only her—when she was common and pathetic and a _beta._ She told everyone she was my mate, but you know what? She wasn't.”

“You killed your mate?” Stiles couldn't help his disbelief.

“That was the label she gave herself. She’s not mate. My mate was stolen.” Oh ugh, Weston was talking about Carmen. Stiles was certain. “That’s right. You’re not dumb, are you, Stilinski? For the first time, Carmen and I were free to have each other. Nick was in ashes. Carrie was in a ground, and we were doing what we were always best at together: making music. And yet Carmen _kept rejecting me_. And then of course I figured out why.”

Stiles’s heart skipped a beat. He couldn't know... but Weston was smiling with a creepiness that even beat out Peter’s. “That’s right, Stiles.” Weston said, and he pulled out a plastic bag from his coat pocket. Inside was a cloth of some kind. “When this is all over, I’m going to have everything. _Everything_ that I want. And you—“ Weston smiled. “You’ll be Peter’s plaything.”

There was nothing Stiles could do but scream as Weston put the noxious-smelling cloth over his mouth. Wolfsbane, Stiles thought. As his vision faded, his eyes locked on Derek’s. Stiles wondered if this would be the last time he saw him.

\- - -

When he came to, what he did not expect to see were padded walls and a bunch of microphones. “What the fuck?” Stiles grumbled, trying to sit up.

“Sleeping beauty awakes.” Weston’s voice was coming through the speakers. When Stiles peered through the glass, he could see Weston seated in front of a soundboard.

“This seriously isn't what I think it is.” Stiles rubbed his eyes and fought the rolling sensation in his stomach. The smell of the wolfsbane was still thick in his throat and nostrils.

“And what do you think it is?”

“Fucking really? You want me to _sing_? Now?”

“It’s better than fucking Peter, don’t you think?”

Stiles was pretty sure that question was rhetorical. “And where is old Uncle Peter?”

“Oh, do you miss him? I could call him back from his errands?”

Stiles glared through the glass. “Not so much. Where’s Derek?”

“Derek is alive—or at least, he will be if you cooperate.” Through the glass, Stiles didn’t miss how Weston’s eyes suddenly reddened.

“Um, and why have me sing? What do you get out of it? I thought you hated the idea of me being in your band.”

“You’re not wrong, but don’t think I am blind to talent. Stiles, your voice is glorious. Our little duet…” Weston sighed as if annoyed. “It was perfection. And I need that perfection. I’m going to have it.”

“Uh, it’s really nice you like my voice and all but—”

Weston cut him off. “No! Think, Stiles. A young singer has a breakout performance, becomes an internet sensation after two duets in a bar. Then he records a record—on the same day that blood is mysteriously found all over his ransacked house. He’s never seen again. But his music lives on. And the band he played with, whose songs they recorded—they become a sensation. You’re our band’s springboard.”

“So according to your super villain plan, I’m dead at the end?” Stiles gritted into the mike.

“I won’t say I didn't consider it, but no—Peter’s going to take you far away. He’s very keen on the idea.” Weston grinned.

Stiles stomach churned again. “And you’re going after Carmen.”

Weston went from toying to menacing in a flash. “She’s mine—and if you want her to live—if you want that little girl of hers to live—you’ll cooperate.”

“Are you really that sick of a motherfucker? You’d threaten a little baby?”

Weston glared at him through the glass. “She’s going to be mine.”

“She’s never going to—” Stiles started to say.

“Shut! Up!” Weston’s roar broke through the speakers. Stiles rolled back in the chair he was in. His ear drums were ringing. “That’s right,” Weston said. “You’re going to sing, and you’re going to sing perfectly. So, do as I command. Look at the screen to your right. Read it through. Then I’m going to play you a recorded version of the song. Then you’ll sing.”

“I hate you.”

Weston looked more amused than anything. “Don’t be such a teenager, Stiles. Now, look at the damn screen before I come in there and start ripping your skin off.”

Stiles turned toward the screen, mind racing. He took a breath and told himself to think. Strength and agility were not his assets here. Weston could probably kill him with a swipe of a single claw. And as lovely as his spunky new voice was—it was not really going to stop Weston. He needed a plan. Even as the music started up, Stiles was scanning the room. There were some beat-up looking drums in the corner—but unfortunately Stiles didn't think staking Weston with a drumstick was in the cards. Seeing as Weston was not a vampire and Stiles doubted he’d be fast enough or strong enough to poke it between his ribs. The microphones were boring stainless steel and foam padding—but then Stiles saw the speakers. The room was full of them: crazy expensive speakers. It was something his dad liked to talk about, buying quality equipment, and he always talked about how the best speakers had _silver_ wiring. Razor thin, super-conductive silver wires.

“Sing,” Weston commanded, and Stiles opened his mouth and started reading the words.

He made himself think it through. He was in an isolation room. Weston’s superhuman hearing had to pass either through speakers or a soundproofed walls. He wouldn't hear if Stiles could muffle the sound. There was also the bright red “recording” button on the screen. Between songs… Stiles focused on singing, and at the end, Weston seemed more or less satisfied. Stiles’s eye was on the button when it suddenly grayed out. Keeping his upper body as still as possible, he ripped open the back of the left speaker. And inside—he pulled the wires out, but then the muting was off, and the recording was back on. Stiles had to sing again. It was almost enough to make him hate his vocal chords. At the next song, he got the wiring untwisted. It was still insulated by rubber tubing, so he just needed to get it out without cutting up or burning his own hands. Not having a knife, he needed something to cut the rubber—which meant he’d need a claw. He needed to try and wolf out.

Stiles was about to try when the music halted. “Sing with a little more emotion. The song is _sexy_.” Weston smacked the mike loud enough to make Stiles jump back again.

Asshole. But then he focused more on the song. Honestly, um, yeah, the song was pretty hot. Something about “hunting a lover” which could have sounded creepy, except that the lover was supposed to be huge and strapping and powerful, and Stiles was pretty sure this was typically a girl’s part to sing, but regardless, as he sang it, he thought of Derek. He thought of his brain-crushing taste or the way he’d looked on his knees in the shower or yeah, earlier when he’d shoved Stiles backwards in his chair earlier that afternoon. He felt it when his nails sharpened, and no, they weren't long and curved like an alpha’s but they did the job as Stiles cut through the wires’ coating, exposing the thin strip of silver inside.

This song was on the longer side, but Stiles barely had enough time to tie the knot before Weston’s voice was coming through the speakers again. Except this time, Weston said, “This next one is a duet. I’m coming in.”

Stiles had to slide the noose of wire underneath a pile of mouse pads. Weston opened the door with a kick, and then he was pretty much on top of Stiles, bracketing his hips back into his chair so Stiles couldn't move. Which—fuck. “You sang that last one better than the rest. Were you thinking of someone in particular?”

“Maybe, I was thinking of you.”

Weston snorted. “Such a smartass—and yet…” He leaned forward pressing his nose into Stiles’s neck. Ew. “The way you smell almost makes me want to change my mind.” Weston brushed his hand over Stiles’s cheek. “Not to mention, all the power that comes with it. If it wasn't for Carmen…”

“Is foreplay necessary for this song?” Stiles asked in stupidly high voice, trying to back away.

Weston laughed but didn't back off of Stiles. “Can’t hurt.” But he did at last stand and step away, grabbing another chair. Stiles did the math in his head. An alpha with super senses was not going to miss it if Stiles tried to drop a silver noose over his head. No, Weston needed to be seriously distracted. He need to be—Stiles fought down his revulsion— _seduced_.

Two weeks ago the idea of Stiles attempting to seduce anyone would have been laughable, but now he was—what had Carmen said? _Wolf nip_. He was like Lydia in a leather miniskirt with her legs spread and no underwear times a thousand million trillion. He could do this. he song started up, and well, it was easy enough to scoot his chair closer to Weston so that he could see the screen better. Of course, Weston glared at him when their legs touched, so Stiles shrunk back—and it was weird, weird, weird, but he did it anyway—he tilted his neck up so that his throat was at least partially exposed. There was no missing the way Weston’s eyes flared.

The song finally commenced. They each had their own microphones but Weston kept leaning over Stiles to adjust stupid crap on the computer—and each time he did so, Stiles didn't miss the way he leaned in closer, breathing in long droughts of air, taking in more of Stiles’s scent. It was another love song. Another duet about everything being perfect before it fell apart—and Stiles focused on the sex component. Being seventeen made it easy. Being in the presence of a homicidal alpha made it a bit more difficult. But yeah, he managed to get hard.

Weston definitely noticed. Even as he was growling out the last line he was staring down into Stiles’s lap, and his nostrils kept flaring, in and out. When the song finished, Weston didn’t even stop the recording—no, he grabbed Stiles’s shirt and yanked him towards him. “What are you doing?” he growled.

“Nuh-uhhhhthing,” Stiles stammered, but he still tried to block Weston’s hand when it slid down and between his legs. As he tried to block Weston’s hand, his nails caught—cutting Weston’s skin.

“You should see your eyes right now,” Weston said, and his own eyes were glowing red. “Blue like the sky and framed by such dark lashes. Now as for this…” Weston held up his scratched palm.

“Uh, whoops?” Stiles said.

But Weston was staring at the droplet of blood on his hand. Stiles didn't miss the expression in his eyes: _temptation_. Weston wanted Stiles. He was looking at Stiles like he wanted to devour him. Fuuuuuhhhhk. This was the only way it was going to work. Stiles whispered, “Can I taste it?”

Weston paused, considering. Then he smiled.

“Please,” Stiles repeated. “I want—just a taste.” And so it didn't come off as a lie, he thought of tasting Derek’s blood, of how alphas always tasted good. Weston looked down at his hand again before he brought the red streak to Stiles’s lips. Stiles’s sole thought before he licked at the wound was: _this could end so very badly_. 

Immediately, the euphoria hit. Like before—like it had been with Derek and creepy Peter—Stiles’s mind blanked. He moaned-growled-snarled. The licking turned into sucking, and Weston let it happen, and his free hand slid forward up Stiles’s thigh, which should not have felt like it did—sending Stiles’s nerves on fire and making his head puff and swell.

He needed to get the wire.

He needed to get out of here.

He needed…

What did he need?

Wire. Wire. Wire. He was not going to slip. He started repeating it in his head like a mantra. Help Derek. Save Laura. Save Carmen. Wire. Wire. But then Weston jerked his hand away and he was yanking Stiles forward, pulling his knees around his waist and oh fucking hell. This was not good. Weston had his chair angled so that the wire was behind Stiles, so that if Stiles tried for it, Weston would see.

For the moment, Weston seemed more interested in coating Stiles’s neck with his spit—which was _not his right_ —but Stiles needed to make him think it was. So he gave in a little. He focused on the burn just beneath his skin and how he was rock hard in his jeans. Without really having to fake it, he jerked his hips forward and into Weston’s and made a really, really wanton moan.

Weston responded in turn. He yanked at Stiles’s button and fly, and being all freakily ambidextrous, undid his own, and then he was speaking soft and low, almost singing, except for the growling scratch of his voice. “You want my bite, don’t you? You want my cock and you want my spit? You can’t help it, can you? You want every—I—”

“No, don’t—I—” Stiles said, and it was a mess. A total mess because Weston’s fangs were extended, and right now—Stiles was close. Stupid close. Especially with the swirly-whirl of his brain.

“Liar. Liar. Pants on fire.” Weston hand was on both their cocks, working them together.

Stiles’s body was traitorous and idiotic, but he was trying to keep the mantra going in his head. _Liar. Wire. Fire. Wire. Wire._ But he was still too far away from the keypad—he needed a reason. “Not like this. Not like—” He tried to pull back. “I don’t want to like this.”

But Weston just shook his head and kept going, jerking Stiles off and singing the liar-liar bit again.

“Not a liar. I just I want—” And Stiles realized how he could get Weston close to the desk. “I want you to fuck me.” Weston stopped and stared. Stiles repeated, “Fuck me.”

With a snarl, Weston lifted Stiles off his lap, and then walked him backwards until his thighs banged against the desk, and yeah, the wire was right behind him. It was right under his fingertips, but his hands weren't free. They were gripping the desktop because Weston was pushing his jeans and boxers down the rest of the way. “Kick them off,” Weston said, and then before Stiles could react, Weston had him sitting back on the counter, and he was slamming Stiles with keyboard and mouse and microphones tumbling off to the sides, and then, um, really, really not good. Weston licked his finger and then, after pushing Stiles’s knees up, pushed it inside.

Stiles almost wished it hurt. It didn't hurt. His body loved it. He moaned and jerked and cursed, and his head was spinning while his spine curled. Weston added a second finger and then a third, and he was saying things. Awful things. Like how Stiles was as wet as a girl. Wetter than Carmen had ever been for him. How Stiles was a wicked little ho-bag—but he’d be better after Weston owned him. How then Weston could own everyone because he would be faster and stronger. How Weston could have everything— _everything._ That was when the three fingers slid out, and Stiles realized he had no time left. Stiles grabbed Weston. He yanked him down, pulling him close as if he wanted a kiss. Their breaths were mixing—

He knew Weston’s hand was positioning his cock. He felt it when Weston pressed up against his hole. Stiles arched his hips, sending his arms back like the move was involuntary—as if he wanted this. Except that the moment Weston started to push in, Stiles strung the silver nose over his neck and yanked with all his strength.

The air went out of chest when he hit the opposite wall. Stinging lines were up and down his chest from where Weston had clawed him. His hands were burning from touching the silver. Yet the pain was an incongruous stew with pleasure haze from Weston’s blood, and it took a minute for Stiles to right himself and to look up and see Weston in the center of the room. The noose had worked. Weston was choking, the silver strip cutting into his windpipe.

At first Stiles just sat there watching, paralyzed. Then he grabbed his jeans and after missing the leg hole three times, finally managed to get them back on. 

When Weston dropped to his knees, Stiles moved forward. He saw the plastic bag with the cloth had fallen from Weston’s pocket. Stiles took out the rag still strongly smelling of wolfsbane and clamped it over Weston’s mouth. Shuddering, Weston collapsed forward onto the floor, but he was still breathing. Even with the silver severing off his oxygen supply, his body was trying to heal, but he couldn't heal. He _shouldn't_ heal.

Weston was a fucking monster. Stiles’s breathing was a mess, but he said aloud, “For Nick. For Quentin. And for Carmen and Laura and for—for Derek.” And still using the cloth, he pulled on the wire until Weston’s breathing cut off with a final gurgle.

The werewolf’s eyes flashed red. His chest didn't rise again.

\- - - 

There was a good sixty seconds where Stiles just stood there and had a silent mental breakdown. Lying on the floor in front of him, with his throat sliced by a silver string, was an alpha werewolf. Weston. And yes, he was evil and murderous and justice was not on his side, but Stiles had killed him in cold blood. Also, there was the fact that Weston’s pants were still open and his dick was hanging out, so it was all Stiles could do to tuck it back into his jeans and then push his eyelids shut.

Then Stiles took a step back and reminded himself to breathe.

He took another breath and looked away from the body.

He checked himself over, trying to feel if anything was different. He felt… He felt less human. He felt cold and disgusted, but um, no, Stiles wasn’t suddenly transforming into an alpha werewolf. His hearing was still mediocre, and he still smelled about as well as he could five minutes ago. He was still a Disney princess werewolf.

Stiles took another breath. Then another and another. He made himself march toward the door.

Out of the isolation room and into the main studio, everything seemed louder and brighter, but Stiles thought that was probably because it was. Traffic was going by, and even if the windows were too high to see out of, he could tell the studio was probably along a main road.

He tried the main door. It was locked with two sturdy looking dead bolts, one which looked freshly installed.

No phones. Not even Weston’s.

The bathroom had no windows.

But when he opened the back closet, there wasn't just CD racks and supplies—there was Derek. He was as white as the floor titles and was bent at a wrong angle in a pool of his own blood.

“ _Nononono_.” Stiles went frantic, racing to him.

But when he stood over Derek, grabbing his face to look at him, Derek’s eyes opened slightly. He was alive.

“Bullet still in,” he croaked.

Stiles took another five breaths before he made himself look at the wound, and when he did it was bloody and disgusting, but he told himself this wasn’t nearly as horrible as the time that Derek insisted Stiles saw off his arm. But whatever. Stiles needed to fix this. It was the bullet that was keeping him from healing.

Sure enough, when he ripped Derek’s shirt away, most of the blood seemed to be coming from the shot wound. It was like Derek’s body was trying to push out the enemy invader but was just running up against a brick wall. Still, Stiles could see the edge of silver. He wanted to rip it out, but his fingers were too big and dirty. He needed tweezers or clamps or something.

There was a rusty tool box in the corner. Stiles got the needle nose pliers out, and he was saying, “sorry, sorry, sorry,” even as he got a grip on the edge of metal and yanked.

Derek screamed, but the bullet was out.

The one thing the supply closet had huge amounts of was bottled water, so Stiles poured that over Derek’s wounds and made him drink some, no matter that he kept choking.

Whatever. Fuck everything. Derek was going to be okay. The blood flow had already stopped.

“You need to get out of here,” Derek said, and his eyes still weren’t that focused.

“Funny. Like I would leave without you.”

“A silver wound is going to need more time to heal, and Peter’s going to be here in five minutes. And Weston…” Derek managed to look confused, and then he pushed up, trying to straighten (he failed miserably) as he took in the fact that Stiles was painted with blood.

“I killed him. He’s dead.”

Derek stared at him. Stiles watched as his nostrils flared. He could probably smell…

But no. Stiles had done what he had to. Derek could deal. “I’m not leaving without you.”

Derek’s eyes shut. “I’m not strong enough right now. I can’t protect you.”

Stiles shook his head. “You don’t have to.” And that’s when he put his knees on either side of Derek and leaned in close. “Sorry if I taste like him. I don’t want to.” And then he kissed Derek.

“You taste disgusting,” Derek complained, but he didn’t tell Stiles to stop either.

“Make me taste like you again.”

But this time Derek jerked away, breathing intense. “You brat, you need to get the fuck out of here.”

Stiles shook his head. “I want you to give me the bite. I’ve always wanted you to.”

“Stiles,” Derek complained.

“No. No. And nooo.” And that’s when Stiles’s started undoing his own belt buckle. “I’m sorry if I smell like Weston. He was all over me, but the fastest way to fix that is to put you all over me—and—” Stiles shoved down his jeans. “I know you’re probably not feeling super right now, so if you’re soft or—”

“Trust me.” Derek was gritting his teeth at Stiles. “That part of me is working fine.”

Stiles knelt over Derek, bending down to work open his fly, and um, yeah. Derek was all there.

“Oh, that’s hot,” Stiles breathed.

“If something happens to you—” Derek started to protest.

“It’ll be because you didn’t bite me,” Stiles snapped back, but then well, he fisted Derek in his hand, and he lifted his own hips, putting Derek right up against his hole.

“You’ve never done this before. You need prepping. You can’t just—” Derek was talking about lots of things that Stiles did not want to think about right now.

So instead Stiles dropped his thighs while his hips arched up—and it felt like a punch from below, but Derek went right inside, gliding in much deeper than either of them expected.

“Feee-yuck,” Stiles meeped, because Derek felt huge.

“You—oh fuck—” Derek’s eyes looked ready roll out of their sockets.

“That’s right,” Stiles said, nodding. “Fuck. We’re fucking. I’m—” And he pushed himself down even farther, forcing himself to breathe.

And then he came up. Then down again.

Derek was… Derek was a gory, balmy mess, and God, he was gorgeous. And the way he was looking at Stiles, like Stiles was an apparition or a dream. It almost made Stiles want to laugh.

“Yeah, we’re so having sex right now. And it is sooo hot. Everything is so messed up, but you’re like crazy fucking hot, and you feel amazing, and yeah, fuck, this officially ends all virgin labels on my person. I’m now like a sex god.”

“Stiles, stop the fucking talking,” Derek snapped, but he had a hand on Stiles’s dick and that was awesome. So awesome. Because Derek was awesome and his dick was awesome and…

Um, he must have been saying some of the various “awesome” statements aloud, because Derek was smiling and glaring all at the same time, and Stiles loved that combination. He loved that he alone could muster it from his grumpy sour wolf, and he loved it even more when Derek yanked Stiles forward, flipping them so the big wolf man could be all alpha and on top.

Apparently Derek was getting some of his strength back, because he kissed Stiles, he nipped at his bottom lip, but then he adjusted Stiles’s legs so that his heels were digging into Derek’s ass, and then, to put it mildly, Derek just let the fuck loose.

Stiles was sliding backwards along the tiles as Derek came into him again and again, and Stiles would have complained, but every thrust was hitting—yeah, right there—and he was definitely licking at a cut on Derek’s shoulder, and the world was a blur and a fog, and Stiles had never wanted anything more than this. Right here. Right now.

And Derek was giving it to him. Finally.

He came with his claws digging into Derek’s back, and his whole spine melting.

Derek was close. Derek was so close. Stiles could feel the way his whole body was shivering, dancing on the edge of release, and Stiles loved it. He wanted to be used this way, and he was about to say all of that—

When Derek froze.

His eyes went wide, his head bent back, like he was listening.

And Stiles realized. 

Peter. 

Stiles did the only thing he could think of.

He bared his neck and mouthed, “Please.”

Derek stared.

Stiles grabbed Derek's jaw. Then he was lifting his chest up as much as he was pulling on Derek’s neck, so he brought Derek’s mouth to his throat, so that Derek’s sharp canines were pricking against Stiles’s skin.

Derek’s whole body was shaking. He was still inside Stiles, and when he pulled back, Stiles thought that he was going to be a total moron. Again.

But no.

Derek pulled back, looked Stiles in the eyes, and hissed “mine.”

He slammed in one last time as he bit down.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Serious schmooop. Like gobs of it.

The bite was a complete chemical avalanche. Stiles felt stabbing pain from Derek’s teeth, and yet his muscles softened to limp noodles from the waves that fissured his central nervous system from his toes all the way up to his brain. When he finally could put two thoughts together, he thought he might have come again. His ears were ringing, and _Dereksmelledamazing_ but the best thing was that when Stiles got his eyes to focus, Derek’s wounds were rapidly healing.

Because Stiles was not just paranormal, he was para _awesome_ , and his genes produced superhero enzymes. Or something.

Of course, all was not like 100%. Derek still looked like someone clubbed him stupid, and well, Stiles so so high on the happy kite—he was in danger of breaching the atmospheric barrier and floating into outer space.

This, naturally, was when Peter kicked open the door.

Derek was flipping from naked human into his beta form in the next second. Stiles just straight up focused on covering his lap with his jeans.

But like, no, Peter was just standing there. No gun or dangerous weapons. He had what appeared to be a bag of popcorn in his hands. He was crunching it loudly.

Or—Stiles circled his pinkie in his ear—maybe he was hearing things differently?

“Stay,” Peter said, palm up and flat. Then he cackled. Very creepily.

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Derek had positioned himself between Peter and Stiles.

“Already did that once.” Peter tossed a piece of popcorn high in the air, catching it in his mouth. 

Stiles found the act weirdly mesmerizing. The smell of the butter and salt was making his stomach rumble.

“And besides,” Peter went on. “I’m not really afraid of my little nephew. Stiles, on the other hand—have you seen the isolation room? Our little _homme fatale_ has a nasty streak. Silver wire from the speakers.” Peter drew a line across his throat. 

Derek spared a glance for Stiles. 

Stiles was pretty sure there was both pride and disbelief built into it.

“Very clever,” Peter nodded. “Although, what a mess. Someone is going to have to explain this whole mess to the authorities.” 

Stiles groaned as he realized what Peter was negotiating. “Could you be any more Slytherin?” 

Peter frowned at him before continuing, “The way I see it, Weston stalked Stiles. He became obsessed with him because of his breakout performance the other night, then he attacked you and the delivery boy and dragged Stiles out here. After fighting for his life, Stiles attacked in self-defense.”

“And you did what?”

“I alerted the police when my nephew went missing. And just a moment ago, I called Sheriff Stilinski. They’ll be here in any second.”

This statement was enough to cause Stiles to start stuffing himself into his jeans.

“You were going to frame me,” Derek said. And yeah, there were both hesitation and anger in Derek’s voice, because yeah, this asshole was both his family and his enemy.

Peter smiled, shrugging his shoulders. “You did _kill_ me.”

“You killed Laura.”

Peter rolled up the popcorn bag with a sigh. “You’re right. Our family has way too much drama.”

Outside the sound of sirens drew near.

Derek marched up to Peter. “You will never come back. You will report to the police, and then you will _leave Beacon Hills._ ” 

“Sure thing,” Peter agreed amicably, before turning to Stiles. “And you finally got him to bite you, huh? It only took—what?—a few murders, a mauling, and a full rock band of alphas trying to get in your pants for him to do it.”

“Peter,” Derek growled.

“I just find Stiles impressive is all.” Peter leaned across to try and clap Derek on the shoulder. “Now get your pants buttoned up. Not really the way to greet Stiles’s daddy.”

And then Peter sauntered out of the closet.

\- - -

Stiles’s dad was pretty fucking freaked out. He handcuffed Derek (which was major fantasy fodder) and Peter. Then, more or less, Beacon Hills' sheriff screamed a lot. Oh, and next he saw what Stiles did to Weston, and that was a whole other hot mess. Finally, other officers stepped in because the Sheriff shouldn’t be in charge of investigating a death—especially when it involved his kid murdering someone in self-defense.

Then again, after reports of the gunshot _in his house_ , his dad had come home to find Will Kang knocked out on his couch, crab rangoons and General Tsao’s chicken littering the front foyer, not to mention that yeah, his son’s bed flooded with dried up blood, and lastly, Stiles wasn’t there. 

Not a good day for Dad’s cardiac health.

But luckily, most of Weston’s diabolic plan regarding how Stiles was going to be the ‘band’s springboard’ was recorded on the tapes. That solved most of the problem. (And any mention of Peter was curiously deleted.)

Because Weston wanted to kill Carmen’s baby, and no judge wasn’t going to think that was sick, sick stuff. 

Stiles was going to be fine.

The only weird bit was that after listening to the tapes “in due course of investigating,” Stiles kept hearing officers in the station humming or singing the songs to themselves.

Stiles wasn’t sure whether he should take that as a compliment or be deeply disturbed.

Uh, well, also at some point Stiles was really bored and sick of drinking stale coffee, so he hunted down Derek ( _by smell_ , because his olfactory receptors had gone totally hound dog post-bite). 

Wearing a clean shirt and everything, Derek was sitting in the waiting area, which was empty.

Stiles crawled into his lap and made use of his mouth.

Derek kept muttering things about cameras and angry fathers, but he also didn’t make Stiles stop either. Because they were just mated, and seriously, Stiles wanted him again. He wanted his spit. He wanted his fingers. And oh, definitely, he wanted his dick.

Of course, that was when Stiles’s dad barged into the room, holding a gun.

Derek ended up getting arrested. 

And yeah, he got released a few hours later, but _still_. Once his father was calmer and no longer in danger of needing triple bypass surgery, they were going to have a serious talk.

\- - -

That weekend they had a barbeque for Scott’s birthday. The band came, too, but now that Weston’s evil plotting was explained, Carmen’s band members had rallied around her. They were protective, and even Buddah-chick was _crazy angry_. Basically, they all were ready to make blood sacrifices to protect Laura.

So even though she was pretty damn nervous about it, Carmen brought her daughter along.

“She loves her aunt best,” Lydia was saying, even as Laura was straining (yet again) for Stiles.

Carmen snorted. “When Stiles isn’t around.”

Stiles was working his way through a huge plate of ribs, which were pretty much the most delicious things on the planet—other than Derek.

But then Derek came over, bringing a new plate of dogs fresh off the grill, and yeah, Stiles almost fell over. Because the deliciousness was reaching critical levels. And truly, this was head-over-heels love.

Derek sat down next to Stiles, rolling his eyes while also passing out food—which Lydia and Carmen attacked. Stiles would have fought them for it, but he’d decided their sisterly competition had evolved to epic levels of cute-sexy, and watching was a-okay.

Laura, meanwhile, had stopped reaching for Stiles and was focusing intently on Derek.

Derek looked back, but truth be told, he looked a little intimidated.

When Lydia released her, she toddled right for him. Then, after settling in his lap, the baby tried to steal his rib. 

Stiles was melted.

Derek, though, was looking at Carmen. “You named her Laura?”

Carmen smiled, looking almost embarrassed. “Your sister was the one that made Nick an alpha, and for a long time, they were best friends and more.” She looked away. “We got along. It wasn’t awkward. She was supposed to be Laura’s godmother, actually. They never got to meet because…”

She didn’t need to say the whole bit about how Peter murdered Laura.

Derek, though, looked down at the baby with even wider eyes, before his jaw set and he looked at Carmen. “She’s pack then. And so are you.”

Carmen met his gaze, and the stare was kind of intense (and hot), but finally, she nodded.

Stiles shivered, and he almost wondered if there was some pheromone-y conversion taking place, like now that Carmen was a part of their pack, she’d be stronger too.

Stiles also wondered if Carmen being part of the pack might mean that Derek might be open to some threesome action.

Except that Derek was glaring at him. Like he could read Stiles’s mind. Or smell.

So annoying.

\- - -

Anyway, things got better after that. After Stiles turned 18, his dad finally had to stop arresting Derek for being in his son’s presence. Carmen got an apartment in town, and Lydia was an obsessive aunt, and also, a pretty damn devoted sister. They both kind of ignored their parents who were all flabbergasted about the baby and stuff. Also, the band took a break, but Carmen started teaching Stiles how to play the guitar. Once Stiles stopped snapping the guitar strings, they started doing some gigs and made a single which made an astounding amount of money on iTunes.

Sheriff Stilinski was pretty damn confused about Stiles’s new singing voice, let alone the infinite supply of gas money, so Stiles ended up explaining to him that the lizard thingy he saw at the police station a few months back was just _one_ species amid the paranormal menagerie populating Beacon Hills. 

Needless to say, his dad didn’t so much believe him when he told him he was a werewolf.

But then his eyes went blinky blue and he sprouted claws.

Yeah, his dad flipped, but like no heart attack, so this just further reinforced Stiles’s commitment to policing his dad’s junk food intake. Stiles set him up on a lunch date with Scott’s mom so that the two of them could do the whole group therapy thing.

Oh, and Derek continued to pretend he was the big bad alpha, but he listened to Stiles when Stiles begged him to pretty pretty please move out of the horrible burnt out ruins in the woods. Then, yeah, he got an apartment in town and started working part time doing auto repair so as to no longer haunt the forest and be emo-crazy for endless days. 

This meant that after school, Stiles got to Derek’s apartment in less than five minutes, and Derek was still dirty from rolling around under cars, so Stiles would rub patterns into the lingering grease on Derek’s hands and arms. And well, things tended to escalate, so Stiles would get thrown onto the kitchen island, legs spread and ready, and Derek didn’t hesitate at all anymore. It was like he could never have enough. Now he bit down on Stiles’s neck like he was dinner. And Stiles happily let himself get devoured, over and over again.

It was always a race to see how many rounds they could get in before five, because at five the pack was allowed to come over. They would whine and complain about how the apartment always stank of “mating.” But they never stopped coming. Or eating all the food Stiles cooked. 

Bastards.

Life wasn’t perfect, per se, like there were still big questions looming over them, like whether or not Stiles was going to really pursue this whole music thing, or whether he’d wander off to college. Also, Derek kept hemming and hawing over bulldozing his old house. But whenever Stiles would over-think everything, Derek would be there, never afraid to make him shut up (but like in the best way possible).

Not that Stiles was the only worrier. Take, as evidence, the day that Derek asked him, “Do you ever regret it?”

“What?”

“That kiss.”

Stiles blinked at him. A lot. “And by ‘that kiss,’ you mean the epigenetic activation of my inner werewolf rock star and the subsequent murder mystery and the eventual crazy crazy hot constant sex that we have at all hours of the day in every position, and how I’m crazy in love with you, and will be for life, and am therefore happy to an insane degree. You’re asking me if I regret that?”

Derek nodded.

“Well…” Stiles let out a breath, shrugging. “No, I’m cool.”

Derek snorted, and then he grabbed Stiles and kissed him for the millionth time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, all of you who read this as a WIP are crazy amazing! 
> 
> ...especially since you read despite my crushing cliff hangers. 
> 
> AN2: more random thoughts, please write more gamma/omega fic, peeps. i like it. 
> 
> AN3: I have a new "complete" fic, called _Joker._ It's supeh angsty and even darker.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: serious Season 2 spoilers. boy!sex. definite dominant/submissive dynamics going on, but no knotting. Violent werewolf fights. Violent scenes of a sexual nature (No good guys are hurt in them--but it's like a creepily close call. Sex is used as a weapon.). 
> 
> There is a triggery non-consensual handjob scene (again not violent) in which there is definite BADTOUCH. Original characters get killed. Like most a/o fic, supernatural seduction is a major kink here. Read: major dubcon stuff.


End file.
